Playing For Keeps
by Scythers
Summary: Sora has been stuck on Disney Castle's planet for a year; he is now a moody teenager who wants to go find his friends, but can't. One night a strange cloaked figure approaches him and offers a deal he can't refuse. (AU for KH: Chain of Memories)
1. Act I

_Author Notes: This is a long story broken up into six chapters. It has already been completed, but I'm going to wait for an undetermined amount of time before posting the next chapter(s). I'm doing that because I can._

_What you need to know about this story: _Playing for Keeps_ is an AU (alternate universe) that takes place after _Kingdom Hearts_ ends. It's basically what I would have happen if I were told to create _KH: Chain of Memories_, the next part of the canon saga. References are made to "Enigmatic Man" from _KH: Final Mix_; if you don't know who that is, go look him up. Characters such as Axel and Vixen have also not been fabricated by me, and other details will become real treats if you're familiar with facts already released about the next game_.__

_The story belongs to me; most of the characters do not; the original premise was the brainchild of my friend Phil, and I bastardized it when I wrote the actual story._

_Sora has been stuck on __Disney __Castle__'s planet for a year; he is now a moody teenager who wants to go find his friends, but can't. One night a strange cloaked figure approaches him and offers a deal he can't refuse.  
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PLAYING FOR KEEPS

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_Act I  
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He felt most comfortable when holding the Keyblade.

It was like an extension of his arms—a vital body part he couldn't be without. When the Key wasn't in his hands, his palms itched and sweat and became grossly clammy. His nerves were suddenly supersensitive and they made every unnecessary touch feel like a blade scraping on his skin, but he endured that valiantly. He sat at fancy dinner parties every night, because every night was fit for a fancy gala in Disney Castle, and he ground and twisted the fancy linen napkin on his lap. He stared into his soup and longed for fresh air. When outdoors he could train for a war against the Heartless that might never come, but at dinner he only battled a mild migraine.

"Sora, dear?"

His soup had been left untouched again—as usual. He had no appetite. He looked at his reflection on the steaming, sickly green soup's surface, and realized without much surprise that his hair was longer and he looked . . . older. He looked much older than the one year that had passed since a time when all he needed to be himself was the Key and a weak prey of Heartless. Carefully he folded and smoothed the linen napkin across his lap and looked up, forcing on a smile. The placid soup created a visual echo of his face and its many premature care lines, which were aggravated by the additional stress of smiling.

"Yeah?"

Donald coughed pointedly from someplace across the table.

Nowadays Sora was too tired to look embarrassed. "_Yes_, Queen Minnie?"

"Could you please hand me the large blue tureen?"

_Ah_, Sora thought as he passed the platter to a dignitary, who passed it on to their well-loved queen. _They don't even bother to point out my lack of eating now, nor my lack of sleep and conversation. They're quick to point out my other faults, yeah—_Sora snuck in a dark look for Donald—_but they've finally given up on the important things. I should be relieved that they're not bothering to ask._

_ . . . But I'm not._

"Why are you so lost in thought, King Sora?" said a duke named Louis, nudging him.

"Sora," he corrected automatically. His conflicted hopes and disappointments shriveled. "Just _Sora_, please."

"And he's only a king until King Mickey returns!" Donald squawked.

"_Donald Duck!_"

"Sorry, Daisy . . ."

"King or not, he still has his head in the clouds," Louis said.

Sora grinned despite himself. "Louis, I'm not always like this. I guess I'm just tired right now."

"All the independent training he has been doing lately is trying," the royal trainer said. He was a short, tense man named Alexander who easily beat Sora in hand-to-hand combat the first time they met. "You see, after one year Sora has gone way beyond what I can teach him. Now _I'm_ the one crying for mercy even when he isn't using the Keyblade!"

Just the mention of the Key made Sora twitch and feel bothered. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. There were rows of windows on each wall of the banquet anteroom, but they could not be opened; cool night air pressed against the stained glass, Sora imagined, while inside it was stifling. His restless hands sought out the linen napkin again.

"Yeah, too much training," Sora said nervously. He became increasingly aware of the press of bodies seated at the long table with him. A duchess several seats down kept picking up and setting down her buttering knife without ever using it. That grated on his patience the most. "But I can't take a break yet."

Anxiety stroked the back of his facade, searching for cracks to seep through. The last time he had felt like this, about to lose his poise, he had ultimately caused a huge scene that involved lots of screaming and Donald later forcing him to write apology notes to the hundred or so dignitaries that had been visiting that night. On most nights he was able to choke down claustrophobia and some of his food, and tonight would've passed just as uneventfully, except for what he had seen this morning when . . .

_I didn't see that_, he thought viciously.

He was already acquainted with answering himself, so he did: _Yes, you saw that._

Pluto dropped his head onto Sora's lap and looked up at him with big, pleading eyes. Although he was usually able to resist the charms of hungry animals, Sora removed his soup dish from the table and placed it between Pluto's front paws. He wasn't going to eat it anyway, and now there was no reflection to look at—just a blinding white tablecloth and rows of uninterrupted silverware that he still didn't know how to use properly.

"I'm going to bed," he said to the tablecloth.

The tablecloth did not reply. No one replied. When he left, no one looked up to see him go. Meanwhile, his untouched spoons and forks and knives glinted forlornly.

_I didn't see that_, he thought again. _I was going to the kitchen this morning, and I took the shorter route through the east wing. I passed the royal repository, which is always locked—but it was open for once. I was curious—who could blame me?—so I looked in, and I saw . . ._

_ Nothing?_

He scaled the grand spiral staircase that went from the first floor to the second; its eastern side lied juxtaposed with a wall of paintings, each a portrait of some famous person in the Kingdom. His own portrait was on the thirty-first step (when his painting was hung, he had been enthusiastic enough to count the steps) and he paused to look at it. He was featured alone, posing in the seat of a mock throne that had been set up. He was wearing a shiny brass crown that he had afterwards dumped into his closet with a collection of stained sweat socks and fraying headbands. The learned manners that held his shoulders very straight against the throne had since been forgotten. In Mickey's absence he was made King, although this was honorary and meant only to appease the Kingdom's citizens who couldn't live without a national figurehead.

_Yeah. I saw nothing._

He touched his painted smile gingerly and remembered the hard, uncompromising seat and the heavy, awkward position of the shiny brass crown. Past joys ached throughout his body.

He saw nothing in the repository because what he did see made no sense! Why would they—the Royal Advisory and Adjudicatory Court, or simply the Court—keep something so important from him?

How did those letters addressed to him—_Don't acknowledge something exists when it doesn't!_—those things—whatever they were—get to the Magic Kingdom if all of the worlds had been separated for over a year?

_I'm so confused._

_That's all right. Isn't everybody?_

He had never seen the repository open before and his curiosity, once smothered by apathy, had glowed again like fanned embers. No one had been around, so sneaking up to the door and peering inside and seeing what required so many harmless secrets was . . . (Sora fumbled for the correct word here as he traced the edges of his portrait-self's perfect posture) . . . justified. He was King: anyone who confronted him about his taking a look-see would have to get over it.

So he had sneaked up to the door and peered inside and seen what required so many harmless secrets. There were shelves stacked with cardboard boxes, and these boxes were clearly labeled by permanent marker: QUEEN'S JEWELS, ROYAL DECLARATIONS, SILK SHEETS, GOLD CUTLERY, LETTERS TO SORA, . . . The gears turning in his head had then ground to a stop and color drained out of everything. He had never seen those letters—the Court had claimed no letters had ever come for him from his friends or Mickey—and this proved that his sixth sense had been right all along. Footsteps had then come from the left and he ran away from them. In the kitchen he had stolen an apple as a small meal before training; he had walked outside, taken one bite, and promptly thrown up in the grass. After that he had beaten the shit out of Alexander to work off his angry confusion. By lunchtime his stomach had been no more than a burning, cramped muscle.

Now it was evening, after dinner on that very same day, and the base of Sora's spine was throbbing hotly enough to drag him from the memory of Alexander frantically pleading for mercy. He could hear the celebration of voices and orchestral music from the anteroom, but the higher he climbed on the staircase, the less distinct these sounds became until they blended together into a solid murmuration.

His room was in the middle of a maze of hallways; while it wasn't the royal suite, his room had been reserved for dignitaries in the past, and so was elegant and accommodating. He stepped inside and shut the door. No noises from downstairs reached him in here, tucked away in a wing reserved for people staying in the castle. Still, he paused, straining to hear even one sign of life through the many walls separating him from everyone else. The window was open and it was chilly in his room, but he paid no notice since the rest of the castle was a furnace. The lights were off and he didn't bother to turn them on as he stepped up to his bureau's mirror. In the darkness his image was a plain shadow: a spiky-topped moppet with ungainly arms and legs that was vaguely intimidating. He was neither Sora, nor King, nor the Keyblade Master when he was a shadow in the mirror. He was a poor imitation of Anti-Sora, if anything at all.

_What am I thinking?_

He sloughed his day-clothes like a snake does dead skin. That morning he had laid out a pair of dark shorts and a jumper, though he had done so halfheartedly, unhappily unsure of his plans for nighttime. The clothes were inky and soft in his hands; he shrugged on the jumper and belted the shorts tightly, roughly. He scolded himself for his fascination with the color black, with shadows. Really, what good became of darkness?

_Completeness._

A shining grid of sapphire blue energy lurked behind his eyelids. It was part of a memory.

_. . . I'll pretend I didn't just think that._

There was no one in his wing of the castle—they were all still having a ball—but he didn't risk trooping past the anteroom dressed as he was. He pulled the jumper's hood over his head, assuming some anonymity; he buried his hands inside deep pockets and uneasily fiddled with a piece of lint. There were no rules against doing something like sneaking out at this hour, but it was suspicious nonetheless, and if anyone found out . . . well. He used the servants' back stairwells to avoid anyone who had also decided to turn in early.

The kitchen was still bustling with activity when he got there. Meals were continually being sent back and forth as per requests of the guests, and unlike chefs in some commoner restaurants, the royal chefs took no offense: they prepared the meals again, taking extra consciousness with the paprika or lemon juice or whatever, and pushed the servers back out good-naturedly. Sora went unnoticed as he tiptoed around the perimeter of the room; only as an afterthought did he nab an unopened jar of peanut butter by the door to the outside trash receptacle area.

"The Honorable Emanuel says his filet mignon isn't rare enough," a bow-tied penguin with a serving tray told one chef.

"Apologize for me at once and tell him I'll serve it raw if I must!"

The door swung shut. Sora used his fingers to eat the peanut butter while he walked into a nighttime darkness punctuated by the waning moon and a few fistfuls of stars. The castle grounds were not unknown to him, even during these unwinding hours. He struggled with the extraordinarily thick peanut butter as his bare legs shushed through the long stalks of grass; uncaringly, he discarded the jar when emptied sometime later and wandered around on the paths, at times straying off to make his own. His movements were without purpose; he wandered and tried not to think too much. A curl of flattened grass rolled out behind him.

When he first noticed _it_, he dismissed it as the wind. The air was cold: summer was quickly approaching fall, though fall had a tendency to be more like winter around here. Night's chilly winds were not enough to arouse chattering teeth, but at least enough to warrant long sleeves. The rustling grass spoke in its own language. So yes, he dismissed _it_ as the wind until the wind failed and _it _continued undeterred.

It was speaking. _Dear Sora, _it said, and Sora knew it wasn't the wind now.

He stopped walking. The visible clouds—thin cirri tendrils braided together to resemble a spider's web—bent and twisted to form a net that caught up the moon, which sparkled and gleamed eerily behind the meshing like a half-hidden clutch of diamonds. A kaleidoscope of moonlight patterned the countryside, drizzling molten silver onto everything. Though belatedly, Sora realized he was standing at a crossroads, and that meant he was a remarkable distance from the castle. He could not remember intending to stray so far from the shimmery architect's dream behind him. More importantly there was whatever it was—it defied description—but he looked down the path that went east and saw only rolling hills basking under the false sun.

_Dear Sora_, it said again.

"Who's there?" he replied. His voice was surprisingly level while dread enveloped his spine like a cachet. "Who said that?"

The soundless voice swelled and subsided; it rustled his hair with cool breaths he couldn't truly feel. All around him the world was submerged in lacy bands of filtered moonlight that rippled, giving him the impression of being underwater. He resisted his first impulse to draw the Key, though his skin was dank and crawling with want. _Dear Sora, _it said for the third time . . . _I hope—_

"Heartless!" Sora searched the shadows for more animate, goggle-eyed counterparts, but the paths bore none. Aside from the long grass, there was nowhere those creatures could have hidden. The lust for battle—for action—blossomed in his heart: his feet spread and he brought up his hands, inches apart and parallel, ready to attack at even the slightest provocation. "Heartless, show yourselves!"

_Dear Sora, I hope you listened to me when I asked you to look after her. Otherwise I won't know how to forgive you. _Sora barely fought down a shudder. The chill outside wasn't enough to match the one crystallizing in his bowels. Slivers of ice emptied into his veins; unpleasant gooseflesh spread over his body. _Dear Sora . . ._

Paper crinkled behind him and he immediately determined its distance to be no more than five yards away, down the western path. Turning around was a quick, fearless maneuver; he summoned the Key and aimed it, ready to cast magic if need be. There was someone standing there, discernable only by the stars it blotted out with its own darkness, but Sora was appreciative that the presence with its voiceless voice was no longer so intangible.

"Who's there?" Sora demanded.

"I'm not done yet," said a low voice, a real voice, accompanied by the rustle of paper. "_So I hope Kairi is with you. That's the least you can do for an old friend._"

Sora's fingers tightened and the Key's leather handgrip creaked. He didn't recognize the voice; however, the passage of déjà vu and moonlight aided to partial identification of this mysterious person. There was no mistaking the cloak it wore. Sora followed the garment's dark outline; when its specific details became apparent, he studied its zippers and snaps, and then the drawn hood's beaded tassels. He remembered the insane pas de deux in Hollow Bastion with a cloaked enigmatic man: the dazzling blue energy, the cryptic messages, the ghostlike coming and going, the crush of unrelated memories, the power neither light nor dark but something in-between . . .

"It's you," Sora said simply. "I remember you—"

"You remember a comrade," the shadow murmured, "rather than me."

"'A mere shell' . . . What are you, then?"

"I'm a postman." Two gloved hands waved what the shadow had been reading from: a creased manila sheet that wore its age badly with tears and stains. "Or were you not listening to the whole 'Dear Sora' spiel, Keyblade Master?"

Sora blinked. "That's a letter."

"Perceptive."

"That's my letter."

"I believe so, yes."

"Give it to me," he whispered.

He charged at the shadow with the Key held high like a talisman. The shadow's countermove came and went before Sora could react; the ground went out from under his feet and he twice tumbled head over heels off of the path and into the tall grass. He struggled to sit up, but the shadow's boot pressed into his sternum and forced him back down firmly and remorselessly.

"Enjoy the view from down there for a bit longer, all right?" the shadow said and revealed the barest hint of a toothy smile inside its unnaturally dark hood—this presence seemed human, true, but Sora did not feel comforted knowing that. "I haven't finished perusing your precious letter aloud yet."

Distantly, Sora knew that he ought to control his temper. His patience possessed a fuse that had once been reasonably sound, but over the last twelve months it had been pared down to its currently awful shortness. It didn't take much to make it burn. He fought to detach himself from the mounting anger—but he fought too late. Rage ate through him like acid, obliterating his weak self-restraint.

When he shut his eyes, he saw all that had maddened him lately: the Kingdom's citizens bowing before their false king, the dinner parties where he broiled in his own perspiration and fate, the training sessions that he used to channel all of his frustration into sheer power, Goofy's dim indifference, Donald's narrow-mindedness, Mickey for not being there, the Court for keeping his letters from him—actual letters, one of which the shadow flaunted like a matador's cape—the royal repository for being open that one time and himself for looking inside, Ansem for stealing away Riku and Kairi and the Destiny Islands, darkness' promises for corrupted hearts, the Keyblade for choosing him, the cloaked shadow for toying with his wishes, and . . . and . . .

Before the memories and emotions could pour out of him as tears, he instead forced all that he felt into a thundering malevolence that threatened to destroy everything around him. The shadow was unfurling the letter again when Sora's hand curled around one of its ankles. His startlingly tight hold gave one fierce jerk and the shadow went headfirst into the deeper grass.

Sora got up and trained the Key on the shadow's face. Adrenaline gushed through him, pulling every muscle taunt, and his breaths moved in and out audibly. The Key's austere metal tines teased the shadow's hood, but did not push it back; however, a slim ringlet of auburn hair fell into the half-light, dissolving more mystery with another component of humanity exposed.

"Enjoy the view," Sora hissed.

The shadow didn't reply and Sora had the unsettling feeling that he was being dissected by those hidden eyes.

"Give me my letter, Postman."

Without reluctance—which Sora understood soon enough—the shadow proffered the desired letter with a flourish of its wrist, calm and collected despite staring up the arm of the potentially-harmful Key. Sora snatched the letter and held it to his heart with one hand, hesitating on where to proceed from there.

"Go on. I never got a chance to finish," the shadow said, smiling. "Read it aloud."

"Yeah . . ." Sora mumbled.

He kept one eye on the shadow as he stepped back and balanced the Key on the crook of his neck. The letter felt real enough as he turned it over in his hands, fretting the edges lightly to avoid paper cuts. Although he knew the letter (and presumably, letters) did exist, he now balked with the shadow's suggestion. Letters were private, personal, and intimate things that should not have been read in the first place by this postman. He glared at the shadow and then spread the letter open, skimming the contents silently. The words were written in a familiar, queerly-hurried handwriting, and he knew immediately this letter had been penned by Riku, whose arrogantly fancy signature at the bottom was a comforting sight.

"Good," Sora said, relieved. "So how did you get this?"

"Get what?" the shadow asked, suddenly confused.

Sora looked over the top of the letter and said, "This letter. How'd you get it out of the royal repository?"

"Oh—the letter. It's real?"

"What do you mean?"

It was then that Sora noticed the letter twitching in his hand like a butterfly caught by its wings. The slanted handwriting withered and bleached along with the paper's original manila coloration, as if it were film exposed to sunlight, and Riku's thick signature was the last to vanish.

In his hands now was a blank sheet, its new color not unlike wet granite. It was a paper that boasted no more worth to him than a kingdom's throne. His hands loosened unconsciously and the paper fluttered away into the tall grass.

"I would never give you the real letters so easily," the shadow said. It was standing; Sora couldn't remember it getting up, but he hadn't been watching ever since the letter began deteriorating. "The real letters are too valuable."

Unthinking now, Sora didn't bother to suppress his anger. The Key spun into his hands, tines skyward, and he heard himself screaming "GIVE THEM TO ME!" at the shadow. The early autumnal chill betrayed him: he felt very hot, so he broke out into an unhelpful sweat. His vision went fuzzy and dark; he thought he might faint. He held up the Key and willed a robust fireball into existence, using magic that fed directly off of his emotions. It burnt a path toward the shadow, incinerating anything in its way.

The shadow did not evade. Instead, it situated one arm across its body at a 45-degree slant; without an indicative ring of power or stirring of air, it was suddenly and completely protected from the magical fire. The oncoming flames smashed against the invisible barrier and curved around it, thereby revealing a spherical proximity immune the fire magic. Sora was inclined to believe in the barrier's immunity to all other magic as well, and his instincts informed him that attacking the barrier physically would be like attacking a brick wall. Nonetheless, he charged at the shadow, his brash smile implying that he was about to destroy a weak Heartless.

A resounding racket—CLANG!—met his efforts. (And had he not been wearing bracers ever since a lesson long ago in wrist vulnerability by Alexander the trainer, he would have also met ruined wrists.) He recovered and persisted: Clang! Clang! Clang! His frenzied slashing did not cause the barrier to ebb; in the midst of his anger he knew the shadow was smiling.

"Give me my letters!" he screamed. "Give them to me, or I'll rip you in half when I get through this fucking barrier—you know I will! I'm not going to stand any more games from you or anyone else! I WANT MY LETTERS!"

Unfettered fury gave Sora the momentum he needed to begin overpowering the barrier. His opponent's arm quickly slanted down, and the barrier swelled noticeably when the Key hit it sooner and recoiled farther than before. The increase in power had been marginal, but it was one that made Sora's strength less potent for now.

He stepped back to catch his breath, and the shadow spoke sotto voce: ". . . I'd give you the letters because they're not mine, but like I said: they're valuable. I deserve remuneration for rescuing them from the Court's clutches, don't I? They sacrificed guards to protect the repository—the floor was red with their sacrifice—all because they knew what would happen if you found out about the letters. Your anger would fester unpredictably until you'd be willing to murder for the truth!

"You are their anchor, their pro tempore _King Sora_, and they can't have you going off the deep end so soon. Maybe after Mickey returned they would have let you know, but not now. Their plans spoiled in a moment of oversight when the repository door was left ajar and you looked in—and, also, when I decided to take action. Especially when I decided to take action. They hadn't counted on my intrusion into their dirty room of secrets."

CLANG!

"Now that's just not nice, Sora."

"Give me my letters, asshole. I don't know who you are, where you came from, or how you know about my letters; all I know is that you have them, and I want them back right now."

The shadow shook its head solemnly. "No wonder everyone avoids you. You've forgotten all your manners. You've even forgotten how to say 'please'! Even I can do that."

Sora paced around the barrier, tapping his Key against its surface to test for weaknesses. "Please," he grated out from between clenched teeth. The word oozed with mocking deceit. "Please give the letters back to me. Please give them back now, asshole!"

"Do you listen? Are you deaf? Aren't you willing to—mm, I don't know—hear the mysterious stranger no matter how nefarious appearances are? Particularly when I'm offering you something otherwise unattainable. Particularly when I'm offering you these dear letters that I could easily shred into fucking pieces and burn away if you don't show me some fucking respect." Real danger came into the shadow's voice without preamble. Its cracked emerald eyes opened wide, catching the moonlight that accentuated derangement. "Show me some respect, Sora, and maybe we can make a deal so you can be well on your way to getting your letters back."

"Fine. Whatever." Sora shakily pushed his fingers through his hair, averting his eyes from the crazed pair. "You have my letters. I want my letters. That's simple. Name your price, Postman."

The shadow's venom thinned, returning its eyes to darkness and its voice to a smooth, conciliating state. "Well now—what do you take me for?" it asked and relaxed its stance. "A common crook? Oh no, dear Sora . . . I couldn't take your money, or even that delightful little weapon you're holding. That'd just be too much. What I want is you to hear me out for a while longer."

There was something unnerving and mystical about the shadow that reminded Sora of the Cheshire Cat: an all-knowing, ambivalent, powerful creature who had haunted him in Wonderland and who later gifted him with ice-based magic. Presently Sora was haunted by thoughts he would have gladly undone: if the shadow's demands had been different, would Sora be willing to part with the Key in exchange for the letters? (The possibility of denouncing his title as Keyblade Master scared him, because it took a few seconds too long to think _Of course not_.)

"Then talk," Sora muttered. The first seedlings of doubt had already been sowed in his mind. "Get it over with."

"You're worthless here."

"Wow! You came all of the way here to toy with me, just to say something like 'You're worthless here'? Don't you think I already know that?" he snapped, voice breaking. "I hope that's all you wanted to say. My letters, if you please."

"There are places where you wouldn't be worthless," the shadow continued. "You've reached your peak here, practicing old techniques and unable to find someone to learn new ones from. No one in this world can teach you anything you don't already know. Other environments could—well—nurtureyou rather than smother. You could be so powerful. You can't get off this glittery orbiting heap because the Court claims every world is still divided . . . and yet I can come and go at will. That must mean . . ."

"I'll find a way to get out of here!" Sora shouted. "My letters, _if you please_?"

The shadow paused. "Do you really believe that, Sora?"

"The worlds can't stay disconnected forever," he protested, though he wavered with doubtfulness he hoped the shadow overlooked.

_I can say all that until I turn blue in the face, but the arrival of this cloaked person—a 'comrade' to the guy from Hollow Bastion—might prove that after a year, the worlds are . . ._

He was Sora the Keyblade Master. He could shake off those thoughts, those memories, couldn't he? But all he could think about was the blue lightning crackling in his mind's eye, and the unease lodged in his stomach that he had never totally digested after "the shell" passed through him. The shadow's comrade had been impalpable one second and ravaging the next . . . if this shadow was here all the way from Hollow Bastion, the worlds must have bridged like before . . .

"I'll get out of here one day!" Sora said, desperately holding onto his convictions. "I'll go see my friends and everything'll be back to the way it was supposed to have been from the beginning."

"How can anything ever be like it was before?" the shadow asked, genuinely curious, acting as though Sora were five years old and explaining what pie-in-the-sky profession he aspired to be when he grew up. Its smile was visible again as a pale smudge against the darkness; the corners of his lips wound away like crimping keys on tuna cans. "Don't be an idiot . . ."

"I'm going to be at home with the others, and that'll make everything okay! I'll be back on Destiny Islands, eating paopu fruit with Kairi and getting picked on by Riku! There won't be any of this crap with a war against the Heartless—I won't sit around being bored and I won't train with inferiors who think they can still teach me something."

"You never locked Destiny Islands' keyhole."

Sora's heart lodged in his throat. ". . . I didn't."

"Time isn't on your side, you know."

"Riku can take care of himself and Kairi," he whispered. "He's stronger than me."

"Too bad you can't be sure he's even there right now."

"You can't be sure either!"

"I can't?" the shadow said, smiling wider.

"You—"

The longer you wait for the worlds to conjoin at the hip unequivocally so the Court is forced to admit it, the longer you have to watch the stars and wonder when your home will blip out of existence again like a passing dream. Heartless don't like to fuck around anymore. They won't be waiting for you this time; they don't care about stealing your heart as much as they do torturing it."

Sora felt helpless. He hated feeling helpless. He thought of Kairi, and Riku, and Wakka and Tidus and Selphie and his mother—their memories curled around his neck like a noose, and then he was choking. He was on his knees without knowing how he got there; he was scratching at the immaterial garotte, trying to remove it. The shadow approached him and he could sense that the barrier had lapsed. He knew his chance to run or attack was _right now_, but he was too tired, and the noose of impuissance only tightened until he could barely breathe.

"I can help you," the shadow said, "though not without some strings attached."

Sora shuddered when the shadow's fingertips touched his hair. "I—"

"Hmm, don't speak until I'm done explaining," the shadow ordered gently, and Sora felt the noose freeing him. "So, I challenge you to a game of cards."

"Cards?" Sora mumbled, rubbing his neck.

"It'll be a game of my own design. The rules are very simple. If you win, I'll give you the letters. In fact, I'll show you how to get back to your friends—how to get back home with them. Power will be yours for the taking."

"And if you win?"

"Then the stakes become mine," the shadow said.

Sora looked up. "What are the stakes?"

"Why—your memories, of course."


	2. Act II

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**PLAYING FOR KEEPS**

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_Act II_

  


He feigned invisibility as he snuck back into the castle at dawn. The kitchen door he had used the night before was unlocked, thankfully, because breakfast preparations were already underway. No one saw the hooded King with dirt-smudged knees and blades of grass stuck in his hair slinking by. This time he didn't take anything for an extra-early meal, though his stomach protested because some of the freshly-baked tarts looked delicious. The hallways were golden with sunlight; he vaguely remembered the night's distorted moon, a confrontation with the cloaked man, even the challenge—but no matter how hard he concentrated, there existed a significant gap in his memory between the challenge and awakening face-down in the tall grass. He paused at one window on the second floor and squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of the crossroads, but there was only one slender path visible from here.

"_Ahem_."

Sora touched the glass, enjoying its chill, and said, "Donald."

"Where were you last night?" Donald asked impatiently.

"I went walking."

"All night? Without telling anyone? Where's your sense of responsibility?"

"Quit it." Sora winced and his opaque reflection did too. "I just had to get some fresh air."

"The Court was in an uproar when everyone found out you were gone. The King wandering off like that—without warning—I never—"

"Kinda like Mickey, huh?"

"But at least he was doing something more important than 'taking a walk'!" Donald squawked.

Sora's self-restraint relapsed; his fingers curled into fists.

"Shut up! Shut up, shut up—_shut up_. Leave me alone!" He turned around. His eyes were bright with anger, yet sunken from exhaustion. "I didn't ask for—this! It wasn't my choice to be crowned!"

Donald bristled, feathers fluffing, but he did not retaliate with his own crabby yelling. ". . . We're not talking about that right now," he sighed.

"Oh come on—"

"Sora!" Donald said, expression grave. "Please clean yourself up and report to the Court after breakfast. They will need to have a serious discussion with you about this."

"There's nothing to discuss!" Sora cried, gesticulating angrily. "I went for a walk. I stayed out late. There's no curfew here!"

"The Court has issued its order for your attendance, so you cannot ignore it!"

"Whatever!"

Sora stomped down the corridor, and he was not pursued. The light shrank from his presence as though he were a cloud passing over the sun; the air felt conspicuously cooler than it had seconds ago. As he passed the royal repository, he checked the handle—it was locked; he thought about kicking the door, but decided against it—and his hand came away smelling of bleach. The entire area, he discovered, smelt of strong cleaning fluids.

_—the floor was red with their sacrifice—_

He hurried to his room, into his bathroom, and scrubbed his hands until his skin was red and sore. In the mirror he saw a purplish bruise encircling his whole neck, and it alarmed him because he did not remember where it had come from; the skin was tender and he treated it with a sweet-smelling balm from the medicine cabinet. When he was finished, it was almost time for breakfast. He was not hungry: his apprehension for the Court's appointment got tangled up with thoughts of scrambled eggs and toast, and the conglomeration made his insides writhe. He sat on his bed, still in the clothes he had worn last night, and chewed on his bottom lip until it peeled and bled painlessly.

_"When will we play your game, Postman?"_

_ "When you're ready to give it all."_

_ "Where?"_

_ "It doesn't matter."_

An anonymous messenger knocked on his bedroom door. "The Court requires that you come down to the meeting now, King Sora."

"It's just 'Sora,'" he whispered.

The Court idled in a large, decorated chamber that was only outdone by the King's throne room. Individual members of the Court sat on high oak benches, and these benches bordered the thin red carpet that spanned the chamber's length. They spoke in restless undertones and fiddled with glass tumblers or wood gavels. Head kept low, Sora escorted himself down the carpet; one by one, the members quieted and reproached him with their eyes alone. He stopped in front of the most senior member—a man dubbed the Grandest Advisor—and waited.

"Court is now in session. I will be presiding today. We all know the regulations here," the Grandest Advisor said. "You may be seated, King Sora."

Sora flopped onto the hard wooden chair set up for him and asked, "There was something you wanted to talk about with me?" His clothes were stiff and grimy; aches came from the strangest places, long-untouched muscles he hadn't known existed. Though he tried to resist his impulses, his palms had begun to sweat and itch from the serious dependency he bore for the Key being in his hands.

"We're here to discuss your reckless behavior," said a lesser advisor several places away. He had to lean forward and crane his neck to see Sora.

"It's intolerable the way you ran off without alerting us," another said.

A fist smacked against the wooden bench somewhere. "And you were gone all night!"

"Absolutely—"

"—no excuse for something so—"

"—a gross lack of foresight—"

"—need to learn your place here—"

"We've entrusted you with—"

"—can't believe how disrespectful you are."

The Grandest Advisor lifted his hands and every voice silenced.

"What have you got to say for yourself in light of these accusations, King Sora?" he boomed.

"I don't have anything to say for myself," Sora said.

"Oh, and why not?"

"I'm King, aren't I?" he drawled. His eyes were wide and clear when he looked up. "And since I'm King, I can do whatever I want! I don't need to say anything."

"You rapscallion—"

"—nothing without our guidance—"

"No choice but to—"

"Shut up!" Sora shouted above the din of protests. "I admit that I went out and stayed out all night, just to spite all of you and your unspoken rules and pointless discussions that always come later on! It's just like when I spite you by refusing to eat or sleep or—"

"What were you doing last night?" the Grandest Advisor asked, overpowering Sora's tangent with sheer roaring volume. "Answer!"

"Don't you get it? I admit to what I've done—I always have—and yet you won't even admit to your doings!"

"Answer the question, King Sora!" a distant advisor yelled.

"I am the honest one! I am the _only honest one_ here!"

"The boy is out of his mind."

"Of all the people here, I am the only one willing to tell the truth!"

"What is he talking about?"

"—someone call for—"

"—obviously needs to be sedated—"

"You tell me of some upcoming war against the Heartless, and yet nothing has happened in a year's time! You claim there is no way for me to leave this chunk of rock, that my home is an unreachable twinkle I ought to forget about so I can better serve you here . . . but—no, my home isn't unreachable. You're all liars . . . I know the worlds have come back together . . . I've seen the proof with my own eyes."

No one swore against him now. The silence was enough to empower his beliefs.

"I know about the letters you've been keeping from me! They're from Riku—and everyone else, aren't they? Aren't they?" he cried, leaping to his feet. "I've seen one from Riku—I've actually seen it!"

"King Sora, you must understand—"

"I'm not done talking!" Sora's hands clenched and darkness taunted his vision again. It felt warm in here—too warm—and there was no outlet for his frustration now. "What were you going to say? I bet I can guess: you fed my lies for my own mental stability! _Bullshit_. I ought to . . . I'm gonna . . .

"You're all worthless, you're all nothing compared to me, you're all obstacles I'm willing to step on to get out of here. I never wanted your crown, your parades and promenades, your doting public—I never wanted to keep the damn throne warm for Mickey!"

"THAT IS ENOUGH!" the Grandest Advisor interjected.

"Speak. Oh speak! Do try to tell me something otherwise."

"Someone has been making your mind filthy with these lies—"

"I'm loving this. Say all that you can—it's just so _funny _. . ."

"You obviously have lost touch with reality, King Sora."

"Stop it, stop it! I'm going to start laughing and never stop!"

"Our unanimous decision: punishment—"

"—you're all so pathetic! Cowering before me, and I'm a third your age—"

"—confined to your room for no less than one week while you recuperate and learn how to separate your desperate fantasy from reality."

"Make me," Sora growled.

"Guards! Guards, come in and take him away! Sentencing is to be carried out immediately." The Grandest Advisor's gavel slammed against its cup.

"You want me to adhere to your sentence?" Sora said, holding up his hands; the Key materialized in them, silvery and bright. "Make me do it. Just try it. I'm not your puppet that'll dance for your entertainment. I know about your lies! You cannot hide anything from your King!"

Guards ran in from where they had been waiting in the hallway. Sora jumped onto his chair's seat, and then onto its sloping back. He pointed the Key at the Grandest Advisor with a dark, dangerous look immortalized in his eyes.

"Guards! _Guards!_" the advisors called simultaneously.

"I want to go home! I want to see Riku and Kairi and Wakka and Tidus and Selphie and my mom—and—I WANT TO GO HOME! You can't keep me here forever! I know the truth now, the truth about all of this, and the truth is FREEDOM!"

"King Sora!"

"Please stop this! Stop him!"

"Run—just run—he's going to—"

STRIKE! With a coruscating display of raw power and one precisely-aimed swing of his arm, Sora sent the Key gyrating into the air. It soared over the Grandest Advisor's head—missing him by one electrifying inch—and arced toward a giant, expensive-looking candelabra. The Key sliced easily through the thick chains keeping the candelabra suspended from the ceiling; gravity let it fall to the ground, where it smashed and sent a cascade of glass shards and lit candles every which way.

Sora cackled. The Key repetitively appeared in his hands and then left them as he reared back, winding up more swings. RAID! RAID! RAID! Other candelabras fell. The advisors screamed and rushed toward the only exit, shielding their faces from the flying glass. The guards struggled forward, caught up by the churning terror, attempting to reach Sora who had by then obtained a higher vantage point atop the Grandest Advisor's own bench.

JUDGEMENT!

The chamber dropped into shadow as the final candelabras came down in coronas of glass and sparks. When the Key appeared in his hands after the attack's final segment, he cradled it to his body affectionately while it continued to glow azure with energy not yet spent, but that energy was warming him pleasantly like a security blanket. The guards forced through the advisors and surrounded Sora, their weapons—pikes and shields that were childish toys compared to the Key—waving at him ominously.

Sora looked down with half-lidded eyes, kind of smiled (according to filed reports), and then swooned and tumbled onto the awaiting troop.

**

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_He has been waiting for what seemed like forever for today. People rush back and forth in the house, from kitchen to family room to kitchen again, and he stands in the middle of traffic, peering up at them with the biggest smile ever. His exasperated mother, after knocking into him accidentally for the third time, ushers him out onto the front porch of their quaint bungalow._

_ "We're getting everything ready for your picnic, Sora," she says into his ear. He grins because her long hair tickles his nose. "But I think there might be an early birthday present waiting for you in the backyard . . ."_

_ That is enough to get him moving. He stumbles over his own feet when going down the front steps and falls flat on his face; however, in innate juvenile fashion, he is back up and sprinting around the house before his mother can even register what happened. The colors are warm and bright this afternoon: the sky is unblemished cerulean, the grass is soft under his bare feet and no lighter than healthy viridian, and the ocean swallows up a distant horizon as liquid sapphire. It smells salty because the ocean is very close. Sora thinks it smells alive. As he rounds the last corner of the house, he runs directly into a pair of outstretched arms and collapses again, but this time with laughter pealing around him._

_ He wrestles with Riku, a boy no more than six or seven years old here, while Kairi—quiet, timid Kairi who had only arrived on the island a month ago—watches them with nervous excitement. Though Sora provides a good fight, he is no match for Riku's naturally larger build, and soon becomes immobilized from the waist up. He opens his eyes to a sun partially eclipsed by Riku's head. He twists and turns as violently as he can, hoping to upset the weight on his midsection._

_ "Hey! Lemme up!"_

_ "Well, if it isn't the birthday boy! We were wondering when you were gonna come out back. Me and Kairi were just about to leave and go do something fun."_

_ "Get off me, Riku!"_

_ Riku laughs—the sound is strong and clear and _real_—and doesn't move. "Not until you say you're sorry for keeping us waiting, yeah? We went through the trouble of getting you some really cool gifts!"_

_ "Gifts?" Sora instantly forgets his grievances._

_ "That's right," Kairi speaks up with a little smile. "We got 'em at the same time."_

_ "I'm sorry! I'm really sorry! Off, off, off! I wanna see my gifts!"_

_ The streamers hanging from the largest tree in the backyard are made of metallic tinsel that catches the light and sets the entire tree ablaze. Sora adores tinsel—it's shiny, after all—though the year-end holiday decoration is incongruent with his summertime surroundings. Twinkles sneak over the grass whenever each bough shifts; Sora points out the particularly large twinkles with his "beating stick" and prowls after them, the similarly stick-wielding Riku at his side._

_ Kairi opts not to participate in these skirmishes, so she sits at the picnic table, sucking on a mango slice and smiling patiently with the adults._

_ WHACK!_

_ "I think I got one!"_

_ ". . . THAT WAS MY FOOT, RIKU!"_

_ "Then don't get those huge things near my stick!"_

_ "Ow ow ow ow ow!"_

_ "Come on! It didn't hurt _that _badly."_

_ Sora sniffes. Riku's heart breaks—it shows openly on his face. The adults "Awww!" collectively._

_ "It really did hurt . . ."_

_ "Here, let's—"_

_ WHACK!_

_ "SORA! THAT'S NOT FAIR!"_

_ The adults groan as Sora poses victoriously over Riku (whose knees have buckled from being hit on the back), waving his stick and wiping away the beguiling tears since their purpose has been fulfilled._

_ The actual picnic meal is no more than a smorgasbord of his favorite foods. He spends most of it attempting to covertly launch fruit seeds across the table at Riku. (After losing his spoon to flustered Mom, he petitions Kairi for use of hers, but she kindly, wisely declines.) Most vividly he recalls the presents set in front of him once the meal is finished. There truly aren't many, but to Sora they might as well form a mountain. He attacks each with gusto, flailing his hands about to rip off the sparkly paper without delay. Hulking bows bounce off unwary bystanders' foreheads and curly ribbons end up in the tree with their cousin tinsel. Whenever he uncovers the actual gift, he crows praises at it and issues a thousand thanks to the givers._

_ But most important are two gifts: Riku's and Kairi's. In this memory he can feel his hands trembling as he looks into the outer box of Riku's gift—and finds a long, crushed velvet jewelry case. He lifts it out and puzzles over it, shaking its contents (Riku smacks him); he pops the lid open, and tucked inside is a chain composed of small silver crowns that are more impressive than bracelet charms. The chain is cool to the touch and he loves it immediately._

_ "Thank you, Riku," he whispers. He doesn't know how else to express his gratitude._

_ Kairi's gift also hides in a jewelry box, but her gift is a necklace with a silver crown pendant that matches the chain's crowns perfectly. Sora looks up and his eyes water. These gifts from his two best friends are thoughtfully matching and lovingly given—not to mention they're shiny, smooth on his skin, and really look wicked. He fumbles with the clasps at first, but he gets the necklace around his neck and attaches the chain to his belt-loop, where it flashes in the sun._

_ "You guys are the BEST!"_

_ Riku grins and—without warning—wrestles Sora to the ground again (though prior notice wouldn't have mattered). "You're welcome, brat!" he says. "And yanno, all this crown stuff might mean you'll be a king one day! If you're really lucky . . ."_

_ "You think so?" Sora says, awed._

_ "Hah! Are you kidding? Of course not. Who would trust you with running a kingdom?"_

_ "Riku! I could be a good king!"_

_ Kairi stands nearby, giggling behind her hands, and then——she stops._

_ Her bubbling laughter fades into silence . . . and all elements of the island are very still. The colors he thinks are so intense start to dim. He stands up—_Where's Riku?—_and looks at the tinsel. Its shine is gone. The tree's boughs aren't moving anymore._

_ —_But don't be afraid.

_He touches the necklace and then the chain._

You hold the mightiest weapon of all.

_The island dematerializes around him. Everything was made of glass all along; fragments large and small spiral off into the darkness that settles in lieu of substance. He chases one of the biggest pieces until he can no longer discern movement in this featureless place that is somehow familiar._

So don't forget:

_His legs give out and he sits down on something. Around him the darkness breaks and flakes away to reveal tall blue walls made of stones stacked atop one another. Marble ripples into view underfoot and spreads out in all directions, giving a floor to the room that is being assembled around him. __Disney__Kingdom__'s emblem-bearing flags sprout from the buttresses growing like weeds everywhere. Stained glass windows refract the sunlight pouring in on him, throwing pinwheels of color across the floor. He is sitting on a chair tucked against a banquet table in a room reserved for especially special occasions. Things captured forever in memory emerge from the final patches of darkness that still linger: penguins balancing trays race around the table, leaving solid afterimages that disappear seconds too late to go unnoticed; servants carrying presents or party decorations fuse together from shadow and glowing glass particles; chairs scrape on the floor and it smells heavenly and excitement fills the emotional void in his chest._

_ Goofy fastens two overlarge hands around Sora's shoulders. "It's your big day, Sora!"_

_ "Aw, guys—you didn't have to do all _this_ . . ." Sora says, rubbing his cheek._

_ "Of course we did!" Donald squawks. Sora wonders if he ever does anything else. "When you let on that your birthday was coming up, you should've known we'd do something for it! The Keyblade Master deserves no less!"_

_ "Well . . ."_

_ Sora smiles and pokes curiously at the fancy gold cutlery that has been laid out for today's festivities._

_ Only a few weeks ago he had returned to __Disney__Kingdom__ as a hero, although even a hero had been unable to search for King Mickey. According to royal scientists who talked over afternoon tea, the worlds were separated fully again. There was no way to recover the lost sovereign until fate opened the gates like before, they explained. Sora didn't know if he believed them, but he kept the questions out of his mind by letting his companions show him around the Kingdom. Every day he has found something new to be fascinated with, like the stables and their strong horses, the incredibly large room he gets to stay in, and even the frequent banquets where dignitaries fight to shake his hand and congratulate them as their bona fide savior. It was during one celebration for the sake of celebrating that he let slip his upcoming birthday to Goofy, who immediately grabbed Donald and went to start preparations._

_ So his birthday dinner promises to be a smash, but for lunch he is surrounded only by his friends that live in the castle. The executive chef personally escorts the afternoon meal to the table, and Sora learns about the gold cutlery's status as a royal heirloom that has been around since the days of King Walt the First. He is given one present early just because, and from the collection he picks out a rather simple-looking box that makes Goofy act excitedly._

_ "Go on, go on—open it, Sora!"_

_ Inside the box is a crown—a shiny brass crown that is awkward and heavy, but still attractive. His heart wedges into his throat because he remembers Riku and Kairi, and their gifts of silver crowns from a birthday that now feels like a lifetime ago. (He knows he shouldn't be so choked up since he's worn those gifts every day without fail, but he can't help his reactions.) He has never forgotten about his friends—especially Riku's sacrifice at the door to Kingdom Hearts, and then the promise to Kairi, and . . . His throat closes and he struggles not to cry. There is applause all around him for some reason, but suddenly the anteroom is fainter than before and there are pale shadows lurking undetected in the corners. He recalls that when the royal scientists had told him that leaving the planet was impossible, he had stayed in his room for hours, grieving for Riku and Kairi and Mickey because of his own helplessness here._

_ "I don't think I understand," Sora says, fumbling for the words. He looks up and his eyes are glistening. Everyone around him thinks he's about to cry tears of joy. "What is this crown for?"_

_ "It's your birthday present!" Goofy says, taking the crown and placing it atop Sora's head. "The Court convened with the Senate and other influential people in __Disney__Kingdom__, and they decided that in King Mickey's absence, _you _should be our new leader!"_

_ "Until King Mickey gets back, of course," Donald adds._

_ "Your coronation is supposed to be in a week. Isn't that great?"_

_ Sora's chest contracts as he asks his only question aloud: "Who would trust me to run a kingdom?"_

_ In his mind there is Riku's grinning face and his rough tomfoolery, the two of them rolling around on the grass with tinsel fluttering overhead, the new weights of his gifts hanging from neck and belt, and Kairi's soft laughter in the background. _(Riku, I could be a king . . . I could be a king . . .) _Sora__ slowly reaches up and removes the brass crown; it's uncomfortable and kind of gives him a headache._

_ "You're the Keyblade Master! There's no one better suited for the job."_

_ Sora looks around. Everyone is so happy. And though a new loneliness has settled on him, he forces his lips into a smile and hears another smattering of applause._

_ "Yeah, I guess so," he says and betrays his heart._

_ That night he stands outside with a huge group of people—more people than he has ever seen in one place—and watches a large-scale fireworks display. Colors he didn't even imagine existing stream and twist across the sky, sometimes distinct shapes (heart, crown, star, circle) and sometimes gleaming bursts that fizzle upon nearing the ground. The fireworks' sounds are the most impressive component and he smirks whenever a skittish someone jumps a little after a particularly loud explosion._

_ Green and blue sparks are mingling overhead when one of the royal advisors comes over and touches his arm._

_ "I'd like to introduce you to someone," says the advisor. "He's one of your biggest fans."_

_ Sora turns and looks at the two men standing there. The advisor is rather nervous, though it's not clear why, and the other man holds himself with heavy dignity, his hands clasped._

_ "This is Senator Axel. He advocated your appointment as King most fervently."_

_ Senator Axel tips a head of stylishly messy hair. "And I will never back down from my support: you are truly the personification of stalwart hope, and the people need hope in these times, Sora . . . hmm, or should I say—King Sora?"_

_ "My coronation is not for another week, I think," Sora mumbles, embarrassed. "And it's just 'Sora,' anyway. None of this 'King Sora' stuff."_

_ Surprise passes over Senator Axel's face; in the merging of fireworks and moonlight Sora is able to see that the Senator's wide eyes are an imposing shade of green. Déjà vu seizes him—but as with most instances of déjà vu, he cannot trace a connection between these eyes and any pair from his memory._

_ "You're a modest king as well!" Senator Axel exclaims as he regains his composure. "I look forward to your coronation, then. A week, was it? I'll be there."_

_ Sora hears the whistling of another firework—it's yellow and glittery and looping above the rest—but it does not detonate because it freezes halfway up the sky. Sans premonition once more, everything abruptly fractures like broken glass and disintegrates into darkness. The sky comes down in huge chunks that dissever into smaller portions when they strike the ground; people all around Sora crumble bloodlessly, falling atop one another; even Senator Axel's proud eyes turn into a gritty dust._

You are the one . . .

_The ground weakens and melts into black quicksand that threatens to drag Sora into nullity. He struggles without a voice because there is no one here to hear it. His hands claw about for an anchor, but what he touches he is cut by as his fragile memory rains down more and more knifelike shards._

. . . who will open the door . . .

_There is no use fighting it. Darkness consumes him and he knows completeness._

. . . to the light.

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Sora awoke with tears on his face.

Rolling over was a chore: all of his muscles were impersonating tightly coiled springs and the mechanical heat seared his insides. He groaned weakly when he found the leverage to sit up. His mouth tasted dry and sour. As everything came into focus, he discovered that he was in his room, on his bed, and a blanket was drawn around him. Outside his window the sun tempted the horizon, but he had no idea what the specific time was—or even if this day was the same in which he had fainted. Standing proved to be too much of a feat, so he sulked in his stiffened clothes and wished he had something to drink.

". . . What the hell," he mumbled. He rubbed his eyes of tears; his palms were grubby with sweat. "What happened?"

He didn't expect an answer, but his door creaked open and Goofy's head appeared. "You up yet, Sora?"

"Yeah, I'm up," he said, wincing.

"Oh—good. I was getting kinda worried."

"What time is it?"

Goofy hesitated. "Dinnertime. You've been out for a while, yunno."

Sora felt disoriented, and it didn't help that the room had suddenly begun swimming. Nausea rose into his gullet like a swollen balloon. He shut his eyes and pulled the blanket around his body tightly. _It's really cold in here_, he thought at the darkness behind his eyelids and frowned. His memories were scrambled and what he could pick out made little sense. He was certain that the Court had called him down to have a chat, but after that there came only the reoccurring themes of shadows and smashed glass. Right about now he would have_ killed_ for something to drink.

"What happened?" he repeated, quietly, once everything had stopped moving.

"Well . . . the Court reached a decision . . . you gotta stay in here for a while, Sora, and I'm supposed to guard you," Goofy said, trying not to let anything seep into his usually affected voice. "You caused a real hullabaloo downstairs. Your scrapes got cleaned up, so don't worry about them. I'm also going to bring in your meals when they're sent. You should think of this as a vacation . . ."

"My scrapes?" Sora lifted his hand and touched his cheek where two butterfly bandages had been attached. There were other bandages all over his face—one was alarmingly close to his right eye—that felt rough under his fingers and whose wounds hurt if he pressed too firmly. "When did I get these?"

Goofy's concern became apparent when he said, "You don't remember what happened?"

"No—I do, I do," Sora lied. "It's just a little foggy."

"I wasn't in there at the time," Goofy said, "but I saw the place afterwards. The candelabras were all over, so I guess you got your scrapes from the glass that broke when they hit the floor. You scared everyone pretty badly—"

_"I am the honest one! I am the only honest one here!"_

_ His frightened, panicked yelling. The Grandest Advisor's red, angry face._

_ "Oh speak! Do try to tell me something otherwise."_

_ Screaming. The Key's comforting warmth and glow enveloping him. Power._

_ "—you're all so pathetic! Cowering before me, and I'm a third your age—"_

_ Like something out of a dream? A whirlwind of images: shocked expressions, flashing glass, a sharp blue light sparing none, despair personified, _the people need despair in these times_, . . ._

_ "Look at your King now, why don't you!"_

"—and that's it. Now you're supposed to stay in here for a week."

". . . I think I'm going to throw up."

Sora forced his legs to move, ignoring their burning pain, and made it into the bathroom just in time. He splattered the ceramic around the toilet bowl, but he conscientiously cleaned up with a handful of toilet paper. Wary and worried, Goofy watched this from the doorway. In the mirror Sora inspected his bandages. There were cuts and scrapes everywhere, not just on his face, but most others were covered with actual linens that smelled strongly of pricy ointment. There were now actual wrappings around his neck for the deep welt there. He leaned against the sink and wondered when his eyes had first become so flat and watery.

"Are you all right?" Goofy finally asked. "Do you need to see a doctor?"

Sora looked at his guardian's reflection and then his own again. Those cold, dead blue eyes had not gone away. "No, I don't need a doctor. I would like to get out of here, though."

"But the Court said—"

"Fuck what the Court said!" Sora snapped. He tipped his forehead against the mirror and willed his eyes to live, to become like they had been before all of this started. There was no change, but the mirror's surface felt frigid and he understood that his skin was burning up from fever. "Fuck—what—the—Court—said. . . . I think I'm going to throw up again."

His aim was even worse this time. Goofy nabbed the toilet paper and cleaned up what he could while Sora slumped into a kneeling position nearby. Slow, tired tears fell down his cheeks, pricking some of the lesser scrapes that had been left uncovered. He tried to resist when Goofy pulled him up by his armpits, but the fight went out of him like an extinguished candle and he submitted to being put in bed again.

"I'll be back with dinner soon," Goofy said, fluffing Sora's pillow and tucking his blanket around his shoulders. "You just lie here and try not to overexert yourself. Here's—the trash can—in case you need it."

"Urgh."

"By the way, the door is going to be locked from the outside, so don't try to get out."

Sora glared at him.

"I'll bring up some fresh bandages, 'cause it's been a few hours since they were changed. And I'll fetch a stupe for your forehead."

Sora glared some more at him.

"Don't worry, Sora! These next seven days will pass like they're nothing."

"I want out of here, Goofy. Now."

"Sorry, Sora—the Court's orders are final . . ."

"Now, Goofy."

Goofy smiled sadly and left. The door's tumblers tumbled and bolt fastened fast, imprisoning Sora inside his room.

Though gastric acid kept violating the sensitive lining of his throat, and his back was a screaming patchwork of contorted muscles, and he just wanted to go to sleep again and forget about his meeting with the Court, Sora shed his blanket and got back onto his feet. The pillow went flying first, but it harmlessly hit the door. Then he went into the bathroom and broke the mirror with one well-placed punch, fracturing the reflection of his dead eyes. The shower curtain's metal rings ricocheted around the bathroom as he wrung the curtain from its place; the light bulb died after a direct hit by one. The bathroom door came off its hinges because his strength and anger were so fiercely bonded into one kick.

The Key was his again with a mere thought, the fifth limb he treasured and feared, and he used it to smash the bureau, dismantle the bed, destroy the window, tear up the walls, ruin the tables, and create a small-scale bonfire via an overkill of Firaga. The flames scorched the ceiling, leaving sooty marks from corner to corner; miraculously, he somehow did not burn down his wing of the castle. When he at last incinerated the door standing between him and freedom, he met with a familiar troop of guardsmen who had been assigned to Sora the High Risk Problem.

He screamed the entire time—no one could make out any words. Apprehending him proved to be near-suicide for some of the guards: he did not pass out this time and instead fought with all the intensity he could summon. Goofy was halfway back from the kitchens when the screaming started; he dropped the dinner tray and ran to the hallway where Sora was plowing through guardsmen as though they were rag dolls.

Goofy dived forward and grabbed Sora's shoulders before he could swing the Key at his next victim. Time slowed to a crawl.

"Sora, Sora, Sora—Sora! Stop, stop—please—please!—it's me!—it's your pal Goofy!"

"Goofy?" Sora stopped and turned; the fury in his expression disappeared and he wilted without it. "Goofy . . ."

The guardsmen that hadn't been overcame watched with a mixture of fascination and boding while Goofy talked, slowly and calmly, as though Sora were a frightened wild animal that knew how to use the Keyblade.

"Sora, let's go find you someplace to lie down. You don't look so good."

"I just . . ."

The Key dissolved into stardust and its Master felt bereft. Itchy. Helpless. Worthless. _Incomplete._He heard the shadow's laughter.

"Hush. Don't try to explain anything right now, okay?"

"I just wanted—" Talking hurt. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. The tears fell despite how much they hurt.

"It's all right. There are plenty of vacant rooms left. Come on—this way. No hard feelings, right? Can you still walk?"

"I can walk," Sora whispered, paused, and coughed. "But my mouth tastes funny."

Then he dropped to his knees and—one strained and painful convulsion later—vomited blood all over the carpet.

  
  
Goofy rushed Sora to the royal hospital ward. After stabilizing emergency treatment, Goofy was permitted to sit nearby while the resident physician lectured and a nurse served Sora cup after cup of warm herbal tea. 

"The undue amounts of stress you've been experiencing led to the repression of your immune system, which was already fighting against a fever and who knows what else. On top of that, the stress caused your digestive tract to weaken—you're so thin, too, you need to eat more—and that's where the blood comes in.

"Whatever training you've been doing is too intense. Whatever else that's going on is too intense. Relaxation is the only thing I can prescribe—well, there's also the herbal tea and maybe some natural depressants," the physician said, busily writing on a pad of paper. "You'll be staying in the ward for at least a few days while we monitor your health."

"A few days—?!"

"Shut up," the physician cut in, unfazed. "You're in no position to argue. I didn't practice medicine for this long to allow a sick person to walk free."

"It's all for the best, Sora," Goofy assured him.

"You also had some minor burns on your hands, but they'll heal. The cuts on your face will be receiving fresh bandages momentarily." The physician tapped his paper with a pen once, twice, three times. "What else, what else . . . you're really a mess . . ."

"Tell me about it," Sora muttered and rubbed his side.

"And I don't mean just physically. There's been the recent issue of your anger—"

"I don't have an anger problem!" The Key was lurking in the middle space it did whenever it wasn't in his hands, waiting to be called forth; energy permeated the air and no one could sense it but him. He could so easily pull out the Key, and . . .

"Of course not, of course not," the physician said dismissively. "According to this report I have, you only refused to eat well and sleep well for the past few months. You only refused to abide by a reasonable self-imposed curfew or explain your actions afterward. You only destroyed several priceless candelabras and only thoroughly terrified the important advisors of Disney Kingdom! You only destroyed your room with a fireball and then in the ensuing struggle you only wounded several guards. And then if all that malice wasn't already enough, you vomited enough blood to stain the royal carpet!"

"Don't mock me! Don't you dare mock me!"

"I'm telling you the truth. Those stains will probably never come out."

"How dare you . . ."

"Your anger is causing all of this stress. It's not only affecting your body, but also the people around you."

Sora abruptly lost his will to dissent after that. He slumped back onto the hospital bed, clutched at his pillow, and watched the sixth cup of herbal tea idle away its steam on his bedside table.

"What bothers me is that no one referred you to me sooner—but that's life," the physician mumbled. "Now we can begin the healing process. If you don't have any more comments, King Sora, I'm going to do some of this paperwork and see about getting you those depressants. The nurse will be attending other patients, but just call for her if you need anything."

Goofy squirmed in his seat. "Can I stay, Doctor?"

"Sure, Goofy. Just don't make too much noise. See you both later."

The ward was quiet for a few minutes. Goofy inched upset glances over to Sora during this time, opened his mouth more than once as if to speak (and each time his nerve failed him), and generally felt miserable about being unable to protect Sora from his inner demons.

"Stop sulking over there," Sora said.

"I'm just worried!"

"It's none of your business."

"I can't help it. Sora—I should've known you needed help . . . since lately you've been acting so weird, and saying such weird things . . ."

Sora's restraint was still thin and brittle. "Did you not hear me yesterday, Goofy?" he said through clenched his teeth. "Hmm . . . that's right—you didn't . . ."

"I heard about what you said. You couldn't have meant any of it, right?"

"I did! I meant all of it. I meant every—_every_—fuckingword of it. I meant it more than you'll ever know."

"You know the Court wouldn't keep anything from you!" Goofy cried. "They've done nothing but help you during your time as King!"

"I know they have—they had my letters, Goofy! In the royal repository, before—"

"You haven't given any proof that these letters you talk about are real."

Nausea swept over Sora and black spots appeared in his vision. "I . . . I know what I saw, damn it . . . I would go up there and get them if—"

"If what? I went up there personally, yunno, and there was nothing of yours around."

"Shut up!" Sora shouted, though his voice was actually very weak. "I know I saw them on one of the shelves before they were stolen!"

"Stolen . . . ?"

"Yeah, they were stolen," he said and knew that he had executed a perfect faux pas. No one would believe his story of the postman, especially with how erratically he had been acting lately. "They were stolen by a guy in a black cloak, who looked a lot like the man we saw in Hollow Bastion."

"Ansem?"

"No! The other man . . . he didn't speak with words, remember?"

Goofy contemplated this and Sora hoped the thoughtfulness was a good sign.

"You believe me, right?"

"Sora . . . I think you're really going to have to listen to what the doctor says if you wanna get better."

"You don't believe me?" Apparently he had guessed wrong; like a fading firework, his optimism dropped away into black desperation. "You've gotta believe me, Goofy!"

"The Court said that you were telling lies . . ."

"I'm not lying! I swear to you that I'm not!"

"If you're not lying—" Goofy wavered and looked away. "If you're not lying—then—you're imagining these things."

"Imagining these things . . . ?"

"I know you're not a liar, so that means—"

"I'm not imagining anything," Sora said flatly. "I know I saw my letters in the repository."

"But the Court said—"

"Fuck the Court! They're turning all of you against me," he said and sat up despite the protests of his muscles. "You're one of the few people who could believe me, Goofy!"

"You've been so different, and like the doctor said, the stress is really getting to your noggin too," Goofy said, tapping his head.

"Are you saying I'm crazy?"

"No, it's nothing like that. The stress is just playing tricks."

"You think I'm crazy," Sora whispered.

"You're putting words in my mouth!"

"It's true! You think I'm crazy, don't you? DON'T YOU?" Sora shrieked suddenly. "Don't deny it. It's in your eyes—those damn doggy eyes of yours that are looking at me like I'm crazy. I'm NOT crazy. You're crazy—yeah—you and the whole Court! You're all crazy! You're the ones that belong in this hospital ward, having these stupid conversations with stupid people who say 'Gwarsh!' all the time! _Gwarsh__!_ If that isn't the craziest thing I've ever heard anyone say, then I don't know what is! . . . except for the idea that I'm crazy."

"Sora!"

"You're crazy. All of you. Get away from me," he growled.

"—I just want you to know I haven't said 'Gwarsh!' yet."

Sora laughed and pointed an accusatory finger at Goofy. "You just did!"

"The Court wants me to testify for your health. I think they're going to take the crown away from you until you get better," Goofy said.

"They're actually doing something worthwhile?" Sora said and smiled, lying back down on his hospital bed. "While they're at it, how about they make _you _into the King this time around?"

Alarmed, Goofy shook his head. "I can't be the King! I think only a person who holds a Keyblade can become the King! That's Mickey, and you, and—well, I guess that's all."

"So I'll give you the Keyblade," Sora said and conjured it with a flexing of his wrist. It felt good and warm and the memories it brought were both happy and painful. _Firaga__! and the room burned and it smelt like the descent into damnation._ "Here, take it."

"Sora, stop kidding around. Just stop it."

"I don't care," Sora said and flung the Key onto the floor, but it slid over against the baseboard without incident. It flickered indecisively as its Master continued: "You all have decided that I'm crazy. Why bother with a trial? I don't deserve to be King, or have the Keyblade, or anything else . . ."

"You're putting words in my mouth again," Goofy warned.

"Whatever," Sora said before he turned over to face the wall.

Goofy played the only card he had up his sleeve: "What would Riku say if he came back and saw you acting like this—like a boy he didn't know at all?"

Sora tensed. "Riku," he murmured. "Riku would . . ."

"And what would _Kairi_think if she saw what you did during the meeting with the Court?"

"I . . . I wouldn't have had to act like that in the first place if you all hadn't kept the truth from me. If you had just given me the letters, or let me off this planet as soon as the worlds came back together . . . I'm cooped up here, a bird with clipped wings . . ."

Goofy sighed. "Golly, I don't know how to reason with you. I'm not any good with these kinds of talks. I was especially never good with talking to my son when he was a teenager like you."

"You have a son?" Sora said, starting. Slowly, he turned back over.

"Huh? Of course I do!" Goofy grinned and began to rummage through his ostensibly deep pockets for something. "I got a picture of him on me."

"You never told me that," Sora said, bewildered, but temporarily forgetting all of the transgressions this crazy person had committed. "You really do?"

"I do! You just never asked," Goofy said, matter-of-fact. He pulled out a beat-up leather wallet; its plastic photo inlay sprung out like a party snake and undulated back and forth across the floor. Goofy struggled to control the infinite number of linked photos that the wallet somehow contained. "His name is Maximillian. He likes to be called Max, though."

"I had no idea that you were a father . . ."

"I wasn't always the best when he was young, regrettably." Goofy looked through a few feet to find the photo, which he held up for Sora to see. "He's the one on the left."

Sora looked from the photo to Goofy and back several times. "He certainly has your . . . uhm . . . everything?"

"He doesn't actually," Goofy corrected, pointing out Max's eyes. "If you look closely enough, you can see that he has his mother's eyes."

"Ah—that's right," Sora said and smiled to humor him. Goofy smiled back and they knew that at least some of the tension between them had been eliminated.

"Well, you should just get some rest for now," Goofy said, patting Sora's covered shoulder when he stood up. The plastic photo inlay got tangled around his knees and he fought with that while scooting toward the hospital ward's exit. "I'll be back later, after I talk with—well, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Sora said. He rolled onto his back and folded his arms behind his head.

"You're not going to try to leave, are you?"

Sora shut his eyes and made his muscles loosen. "No, I think I'll soil some more expensive royal carpet if I do that."


	3. Act III

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_Act III__****__  
  
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"Remember," the physician advised, "don't engage in anything too stressful if you plan on not coughing up blood again. Your fever has subsided, but your immune system is still a little out of sync. Drink tea before bedtime and take some of the remedy I've been giving you if you think you need it. Use your own discretion."

"I got it, I got it," Sora said, grinning and handing over his hospital gown. "I'll do whatever I can if it means I won't have to wear _that_ rag again. Never have I felt so exposed . . ."

Goofy and Donald looked on delightedly. Sora had healed physically; after a week in the hospital ward, spent relaxing and being carefully monitored, his disposition also seemed to have been patched up. He hadn't been as energetic as this in months. He ate enough, slept enough, was easy to talk to—and best of all, he no longer ranted and raved about some half-baked conspiracy theory involving the Court, nonexistent letters from his friends, and an imaginary cloaked man.

"It was just a phase," Donald whispered to Goofy.

"Angst," Goofy whispered back.

Donald smirked. "Hormones."

"What are you two chattering about?" Sora said, crossing his arms and giving them both a stern look. "Aren't you supposed to be my escorts for a while? Your sweet nothings to one another are going to give me a headache at this rate."

"Yeah, we're your escorts," Donald said, refraining from a squawk. "We have your agenda planned out and everything."

"Lots of 'stay in bed and don't make any noise,' huh?" Sora said. "Sounds like this is going to be a lot of fun."

"It's not really like that," Goofy negated. "Since you've been resting for a while, we're going to the training grounds so you can do some stretching and low-impact stuff. You don't want your muscles to atrophy or nothing."

"Gwarsh," Sora quipped and laughed.

The three of them walking outside together reminded Sora of old times. They took the path that connected the castle with the training grounds; it passed through the countryside, and the escorts did not notice when Sora's pace faltered because the grass rustled all around them like hushed voices. His memories were still too fresh. At the crossroads some ways away right now, the hallucinatory shadow had accosted him one week ago. However, during daylight it wasn't so intimidating out here, he noticed happily. The grass wasn't too tall and it didn't cast shadows that resembled men. Clouds that blocked out the sun came and went quickly, so never did any webbed patches of light touch the ground. The conspiracy he had convinced himself of before his stay in the hospital ward was now a stranded, grotesque thing that looked silly in light of reality. Donald and Goofy had been right: a phase, angst, hormones, or whatever. It didn't matter now.

He was _happy _to be here on this planet and knew he'd get home eventually. First there was a war to fight against the Heartless, and he had to be prepared for anything. Some warm-ups would be great for his rusty joints. The physician told him he could easily pull a muscle if he decided to dive right back into his rigorous training, so this would be something of a stepping stone.

"You okay, Sora?" Goofy asked, looking back at him.

Sora flashed a victory sign and everything _was _okay . . .

. . . until he looked off into the countryside, expecting to see only endless waves of grass being buffeted by the breeze. There was a hill several meters to his left, and he immediately noticed the dark shape lurking atop its crest. He stopped walking.

"Sora?" Donald said, but his voice sounded so distant.

The shape was definitely humanlike. It had a head and a long, straight body hidden by a cloak that looked too heavy and hot for this sunny day; its two arms were slim, and one was lifted to reveal a hand poking out from the sleeve. Tapered, gloved fingers were beckoning for him.

"Postman," Sora whispered.

"What is it? We're almost to the training grounds."

_This can't be happening._

After all the time he had spent in the hospital ward, picking apart his memories and pointing out every fallacy, traitorous reality was going to drop something like this into his lap? It was unacceptable. This morning he had woken up; he had looked in the mirror and had seen these bright, dynamic blue eyes that caught the light and threw it back. His aches were occasional, unpleasant pangs. Murderous rebellion didn't even exist in his vocabulary. The last three months of his year-long stay in Disney Kingdom had been hellish, and he refused to stand idly by if destiny wanted his remaining months here to be the same. There wasn't going to be any more unhappiness or anger or bitterness or depression or a fucking dark cloud hovering over him, spawned of guilt because he couldn't get off this godforsaken rock and go find his friends. He was needed for once, he was needed here to fight in the upcoming war, he was needed by the Kingdom to be the pillar of hope that Senator Axel had described.

In a flash of light the Key appeared in his hands. He went racing through the long stalks of grass toward the shadow.

"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO RUIN THIS FOR ME!" he screamed.

It took less than a glance to wreck the stability he had painstakingly forged after a week of convincing himself of many, many lies about his reality, though they had been beautiful, elysian lies.

_Hello, uncompromising Truth. You bastard._

His friends called after him, but their voices were of no importance. All that mattered was the distance separating him from a shadowy delusion (_a reality?!_) that wanted to fuck things up. He brought the Key down and reaped grass as he went; a flare of green went into the air, marking his streaking path. Donald and Goofy ran after him, staff and shield readied, but not before Sora conjured his magic and turned the shadow's hilltop into an inferno.

Goofy grabbed him as he recoiled from the force of his attack.

"Let me go!" Sora shouted and struggled violently. "Let me go, Goofy! I saw him—I saw the postman! He's right over there! Didn't you see him?"

"Sora, Sora!" Donald said, clutching at Sora's legs to prevent him from thrashing too much. "There's no one here!"

It took one more forceful movement for Sora to break free. He jumped forward and interrupted the raging fire with a powerful blast of snow. Thick, harsh ice coated everything; it gleamed in the sunlight, revealing the ravaged landscape beneath its gloss. There was no one torched or frozen atop this hill. There was no indication someone had fled down the other side. They were alone.

"I know I saw . . ." Sora said, chipping at ice with the Key. He appeared so lost. "I saw the postman."

"There's no one up here," Donald repeated and approached first. "Goofy, let's get him back to the castle. He obviously hasn't had enough rest."

"I'm not going back to the castle," Sora said. "I'm going to find the postman and prove to everyone that I'm not crazy."

"You said yourself that you made all of it up!" Goofy cried, catching Sora's arm. "For the past week you told us that you were just going through a phase—"

"Angst!" Donald contributed.

"Hormones! Whatever it was—none of what you claimed to see was real, Sora. Please come back with us."

"_No!_"

Sora smacked Goofy's hand away and spun around, leveling the Key at his two escorts. His breathing quickened and his eyes narrowed against the shine of the glittery, icy ground. They weren't very far from the castle, but his screaming had thus far gone unheard by anyone over there. No reinforcements would arrive in time. Donald and Goofy moved closer together and lifted their weapons defensively, but the thought of actually fighting their friend never came to mind.

"I'm going to go look for the postman. You two can _fuck off _or something."

"We can't let you do that by yourself," Donald said.

Goofy nodded. "Yeah, we're supposed to keep an eye on you."

"Fine! Just don't get in my way!"

"No—you don't understand. We have to take you back . . . it's for your own good. You'll see."

"Stay away from me, you guys—I'm only gonna warn you once."

"Now! Get 'im, Goofy!"

They tried to detain Sora. They really tried.

Goofy took five steps before Sora simply lifted the Key, wound up, and embedded its length into Goofy's side (with the tines facing outward, away from any unprotected flank, but it still hurt like no hurt ever experienced before). Sora watched Goofy collapse, and before he could even think about what he was doing, he bashed the fallen escort's head with the Key once. Then twice. And then he kept doing it, and he was screaming and the darkness and rage was just pouring out of him like a faucet that wouldn't turn off. Donald tried a magical attack while Sora was distracted—it was an issue of life-and-death, and he was no good at fighting in hand-to-hand combat—but he wasn't quick enough. Sora looked up at the inbound fireball, leapt away from Goofy (who received the brunt of it), and countered with a vortex of flames that totally engulfed Donald, melting the ice where he collapsed.

"Roasted duck, anyone?" Sora said to no one, walking over to this severely burnt escort. As an afterthought, he stopped and planted the heel of his boot into Donald's smoldering, plumy chest. One or two ribs gave way. "I told you to _fuck off_. This is what you get."

He turned his back on the devastation, adrenaline thrilling him and darkness feeding off him, and slid down the icy hill. When ice met solid ground, he stumbled, fell, and rolled over once, but ended up on his feet.

Light, polite applause started up behind him. The shadow was standing at the base of the hill, contemplating him, its dark hands fluttering back and forth. Sora straightened, his breaths coming furiously again, and the Key was all too ready for another go.

"Bravo," said the low, lazy voice. "Bravo, I must say."

"Postman," Sora growled, "are you real?"

"What a foolish question," the shadow said, unimpressed.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Doing what?"

"You know what! I'm not supposed to feel—like this—you're not supposed to be real!"

"Someone has been filling your head with lies," the shadow cooed.

What a familiar thing to say. Sora shut his eyes in one extra-long blink. "Go away. Just go away."

"Where are your manners?"

"_Please_ go away."

"No."

"Why?"

"Manners—"

"_May I know why?_"

"I don't feel like going away."

"You—I—oh, shit . . ."

"Yes?"

"You're real."

"Yes."

"Where have you been?" Sora murmured, defeated.

"I've been around," the shadow said, motioning vaguely to the sky. "But I did get to see that splendid little show you put on just now. 'Roasted duck, anyone?' _Indeed._ I didn't think you had it in you to fatally wound your own friends."

"They'll live! I didn't—I just—they wouldn't leave me alone and I had to do something—I didn't think—but—"

"Well, if they're lucky, I'm sure they won't hemorrhage too much. You should take them to the hospital ward just to be sure."

"Fuck that—fuck this—and fuck you," Sora spat, unable to make excuses any longer. "All I want, all I really want, is for you to come back to the castle with me. Since you're real, that makes you my evidence."

"Are you going to take me there by force, your Majesty?" the shadow said bemusedly. "Huh, wait a minute . . . the Court is going to revoke your crown, isn't it? You've gone a bit nutty, so no one can really blame that decision."

"It doesn't matter! The Court will believe me if I bring you back."

"I can't go back with you."

"What do you mean?" Sora yelled. "Of course you can! Do your famous disappearing act afterward. I just want my sanity to be proven."

The shadow minded him with a curious tilt of its head. "I'm not going to go back there with you because I don't give a damn what the Court does or does not think."

"But you're here—"

"Why do you think I'm here?"

"I don't know!" Sora exploded, stomping on the ground. "To ruin my life! To make me look crazy! Obviously it isn't to help me out, asshole!"

"But it _is _to help you," the shadow said. "It really is. I'm here because you're ready to give it all."

"I'm—what?"

"Don't bother denying it. You're at the end of your rope—off the deep end—sunk up to your neck—going up the wall—bending over backwards. You're ready to give it all."

"You want to play your stupid card game?"

"Yes."

"_Now?_ Of all times, you want to play right now?"

"That's why I'm here."

"You're crazier than I allegedly am," Sora muttered. "Forget it."

"This is not an option," the shadow said. "I likewise don't care if this particular time is an inconvenience for you. You're ready to give it all, and I'm here to honor my offer for that game. If you want me to 'forget it,' you forfeit any chance of having your precious letters returned to you; you forfeit any change of gaining the ability to return home before the Heartless rip it apart like before."

Sora battled with the ultimatum. If he walked away, the shadow would never appear before him again: a certain blessing, but the damage to peoples' perceptions of his sanity had already been done. Not to mention that Donald lied in an ashy smear of his own burnt feathers and Goofy was a bloody heap of flesh.

As he thought about it, he realized his assault on his escorts had been very much like a dream—cloudy and impersonal and washed-out. The absolute rage responsible for his actions, rage he had felt only minutes ago, he now could not fathom at all. He felt . . . hollow . . . even the . . . (he swallowed thickly) . . . even the frustration that he had been experiencing for so long was now replaced by emptiness. Every emotion had fled him, and he wondered with his remaining coherency—_Am I going to faint?_—if becoming hollow—unfeeling—was some sort of defensive technique in stressful situations. Feel nothing and you won't be hurt. There was no sadness, no regret, no fear, no anger, no guilt, no disappointment.

Gloved fingertips touched his brow and startled him from his internal inventory. The shadow leaned down and asked, "What is it going to be?"

"Let's do this," Sora said. "I just want to get this over with as soon as possible."

"Tabula rasa no more," the shadow said seriously, teasing Sora's untidy fringe. "Come along. We shan't play in broad daylight."

They walked further away from the castle, away from the icy hill and the two escorts in dire need of hospitalization, away from the Court sitting over lunch and wondering why their charge hadn't yet returned. Sora closed his eyes; the shadow's heavy presence was enough to guide him. He felt anemic, while the interminable countryside only discouraged his energy more so. Where could he possibly run to? There would be guards dispatched shortly to search for him, and they would find Donald and Goofy first—and what would that say about his sanity then? The tall grass tickled his legs and he wandered onward.

"Sit down."

"—Huh?"

_ What tall grass?_ Sora thought suddenly, and because that thought did not make any sense, he opened his eyes. There was no interminable countryside with tall grass and the smell of smoke. A beach lay before him, and its white sand was nearly blinding. Lying next to that was an ocean; the sunlight flashed off its rolling surface and made the occasional white-caps brighter than the sand. Overhead palm tree fronds immingled into an indistinct green blur to create nature's version of a reasonably shady umbrella. The hint of sky Sora could see past the fronds was a perfect summertime blue. They were someplace tropical. Fresh homesickness twisted up his insides, but that feeling soon deadened into the protective nothingness.

_ This place looks a lot like—_

"No, these aren't the real Destiny Islands," the shadow said and seated itself on one of two wicker chairs nearby. "I'm only cruel aesthetically."

"Oh."

"So sit down."

Sora followed the order this time and cast another surreptitious look around. "Where are we?"

"We're inside a memory."

"Whose memory?"

"Yours. That's why everything is so well-known."

Waving its hand up and down, the shadow summoned a small wicker table with a flat glass top. A china tea set also clattered into existence. The shadow chose a saucer and a cup, and then slid the spares to Sora's side. The teapot was already wallowing in steam.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Er—no, thanks . . ."

"Don't mind if I do, then," the shadow said and picked up the teapot.

"How are you able to do this?" Sora said, leaning forward. "I mean, use my memories like this?"

"I can do anything I want to."

Sora scowled. "That's a lot for me to swallow."

"Then you'd better open wide," the shadow murmured as it took the first sip.

Gulls cried in the distance and the ocean splashed quietly. It was very peaceful here. For any number of violent and frightening memories Sora could think of, there would always be memories like these to create equilibrium. Over on the beach there was a sand castle elaborately decorated with sea shells, but it was a few minutes from being consumed by the ocean. Sora smiled at the inevitability of it.

_ Fate molests everything_, he thought sourly.

"It does," the shadow said.

Sora sighed. "Are you reading my mind?"

"I'm doing something like that—while I'm here, you're as easy to read as an open book. Truthfully, our minds are connected on some primitive, unconscious level because that's where I found the blueprint for the world you see around you right now.

"That's—well—really amazing," Sora said.

"It is power," said the sipping shadow. "It is power that you can win, too."

"Hmm, really . . ."

_ CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?_

The shadow twitched. "That's enough."

"I was just checking!"

"As you said, let's do this," the shadow muttered. It set down the teacup, clapped its hands together, and then drew them apart to reveal a stack of especially elongated cards that were dimensionally like tarots. "Here are our cards."

A tingling sensation bled through Sora's head and down his spine. He reached over and the shadow allowed him to pick up a few of the topmost cards. The backs were covered in crisscrossing brown-orange lines and red fleurs-de-lis.

"These are . . ." Sora turned them over. The three cards he held had different pictures: Donald looking determined, Maleficent clenching bone-white fingers, and a silver crown attached to a keychain. Each card's surface was slick like virgin cards are and rather cool in comparison to the memory-island's balmy temperature. "What are these?"

"Like this place, these cards are also constructed from your memories. They represent a person, a place, or a thing. The object of this game is to make as many matches as you can with the cards," the shadow said, plucking the three cards from Sora's fingers. It shuffled them back into the deck and then selected two others: one of a windblown, desolate desert and the other of the fearsome Kurt Zisa. "These two cards are related, so they make a match—do you see?"

"Yeah . . . I fought Kurt Zisa in the desert," Sora said, remembering.

"Very good. Most of the cards have matches like this. Since these are representative of your memories, you should be able to play well. But it's your first time playing, so I'll help you out in case you make an improper match."

"How do you win?"

"Finally, a good question," the shadow said, its grin pale and enshrouded. "To win you must not lose. That's all."

Sora stared. "And how don't you lose?"

"There are 49 cards—"

"Why 49? If we're matching up the cards, why's there an odd number of them?"

"Don't interrupt me. There are 49 cards—you figure out the number's significance—so the greatest number of possible matches is 24. Those pairs will be dispersed between us, obviously. It doesn't matter who has the most matches in the end. What matters is whether or not you have the odd card out, the one that doesn't have a match."

"Which card is that?"

"You'll know when you see it. Anyway, cards are dealt to each player until the entire deck is exhausted. Players then match up whatever cards they can and discard those, leaving the cards they currently don't have a match for. They then take turns shuffling their remaining cards and holding them out face-down to the other player, who must select one card at random. If the other player has made a match, they discard it; otherwise it stays in their hand and they have a chance to be rid of it when the selecting process happens again. The player with the odd card is the loser."

"You could have said 'this is like Old Maid—not Go Fish,' you know," Sora said, smirking.

"Oh."

"You're inside my head and you didn't even check?"

The shadow sighed and began shuffling cards. "Also, if you're losing and you decide to fold, that's an automatic forfeiture—the opposing player wins. I'll deal."

Much to his relief, Sora was able to find several matches in his cards without trying too hard. Keychains and Keyblades went together naturally, as did persons like Belle and Beast, Aladdin and Jasmine, and so on. He discarded nine pairs, as did the shadow, to be left with six cards in his hand and seven in the shadow's.

_ He has an odd number of cards, _Sora thought smugly. _Though that doesn't guarantee me very much . . ._

"Do you wish to pick first?" the shadow asked.

"Sure," Sora said.

The shadow shuffled its cards and then offered them. Sora took a card nearer the edge, because from the experience of playing this with Riku he knew that undesirable cards had a greater chance of ending up toward the middle. The card he chose had a picture of Yuffie holding a glowing shuriken; he grinned as he matched her with the Gunblade-wielding Leon.

"Good! That's a legal match," the shadow said. "Now it's my turn."

The shadow chose a nighttime shot of Neverland's clock tower and matched it with a card of the menacing Phantom that had haunted the property for a short time.

Sora picked Alice next and placed her card alongside the Cheshire's.

Goofy turned up for the shadow and was discarded with Donald.

There were three cards left in the shadow's hand. Sora looked at their indistinguishable backs and then the two cards he had left (smiling Kairi and the Gummi Ship in deep space). His odds of choosing the losing card were one-in-three. He mulled over fate and the shadow waited impassively. When he made his selection, he chose the middle card, and was pleased to discover a snapshot of himself lounging in the royal courtyard with an apple in hand.

He placed his card beside Kairi's and laid the match on the table.

The shadow coughed. Twice. Sharply.

Apparently—there was a problem.

"What?" Sora said incredulously when the cards appeared back in his hand automatically. "It isn't a legal match?"

"Mmm—I'm so sorry—no, it isn't."

_No! That must mean Kairi is the "Old Maid" in this desk!_ Sora thought, nervously shuffling his cards for the shadow's turn to pick. _I've got to get rid of her card. There are only a few more rounds left._

He trembled a little when he held out his final three cards.

"Don't worry, Sora," the shadow said, taking a card on its far left. "Everything will work out just fine one way or another."

Sora turned over his cards hurriedly.

_ Oh, thank God._

The odd card—Kairi—was missing from his hand. There was only his card and the Gummi Ship's left. He had never felt so relieved; even the all-consuming apathy he had been fraught with dissolved into a refreshing imperturbability. Grinning, he fingered the corners of his cards and glanced up, expecting to see the shadow's cramped horror at picking the odd card again—of all the luck! Plans to humiliate the shadow after its loss were already in the making. When his victory was unarguable, he would stand up and laugh until his sides split and the shadow would stew and have to fork over the letters . . .

"Oh," the shadow murmured, "thank God."

Sora's heart skipped a beat or five.

A pair fell onto the table: Kairi and Riku.

"No."

"Yes," the shadow said and held out its final card—still face-down.

"No!" Sora insisted. "That can't be a legal match, Postman!"

"Of course it is."

"It can't—"

"Your turn."

"It just—"

"Do you want to forfeit? I win if you do that. It'll make it easier on me."

"I lost anyway, don't I? No matter which card makes a pair . . ."

"Just take the damn card."

Sora shook his head. His prayers had not reached far enough.

The final card featured grizzly old Cid, and he naturally went with the Gummi Ship.

"You're the Old Maid," the shadow said, pleased. It pushed the paired cards into a pile and straightened them out into the neat stack they were before. "I thought you were going to realize that you'll always be alone—and so your card is the odd one out—but I guess you were more overconfident than I was told."

"I'm not—"

"Glory to the defeated," the shadow intoned, "and glory to the victor."

"But wasn't—" Sora said, fighting to speak around the lump in his throat. "But wasn't this just a warm-up?"

The shadow stopped moving. "No, it wasn't."

"I was just getting used to the rules!"

"So says the one kid mocked me for not checking to see if you knew the rules of Old Maid first," the shadow said, sneering.

"Best two out of three?"

"No."

"Can't we try something else first? Rock, paper, scissors?"

"No."

"Heads, I win; tails, you lose?"

"That might work on Goofy."

"Come on!"

"No," the shadow said and plucked the odd card from Sora's fingers. "And now I may collect my prize."

"My . . ." Sora's mouth was dry. "My memories . . ."

"Memory. Singular. The stakes are no higher than one-to-one."

"Please—"

"No."

"Please, _please—_"

"No."

"I—"

"Stop your fucking whining!" the shadow snarled. "You agreed to play my game. I forced you into nothing. Don't try to be the victim."

And then Sora's head lolled back and he was gone.**_  
  
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_ here is the lonely birthday lunchtime i spend reminiscing and eating delicious food and there are presents for me but I'm only allowed to open one so i choose donald and goofy's and goofy hands me my present and claps his hand on my shoulders and leans down and i can just sense his excitement when he says "here is your present" so i take my present and i open my present and inside it is a polished brass crown that looks too severe against all the pretty dark crushed velvet and i look up and i wonder aloud about this present and goofy exclaims "it's your birthday present" loudly in my ear and i am confused because who would want me to be king i remember riku saying i would make a lousy king but the day is all a blur a beautiful blur of color and that night i am treated to fireworks and they are lovely and scary and so loud and i am introduced to the people who orchestrated my becoming king without asking me first and there is one guy his name is senator axel and he has brilliant green eyes like a cat's and his smile is like a knife and he calls me hope personified and i think he's crazy but he doesn't know that nonetheless my inauguration will be next week and he promises to be there because he is one of my biggest fans and wouldn't miss it for all the world i will lead the people because i am their savior as long as mickey isn't around sometimes i get so tired of all the pomp and circumstance and i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home i just want to go home please please PLEASE_**_  
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"Wake up!"

Sora opened his eyes. He didn't remember closing them. The palm fronds waved down at him. He was slumped over his wicker chair, head tilted way back. "What . . . what happened?"

The shadow shook its head and poured another cup of tea. "You suddenly went comatose. I thought you were having a seizure, but you didn't provide the creative floor entertainment I was hoping for."**__**

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_ i__ just want to go home_**__****_  
  
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"I feel weird," Sora said and held up at his hands. There was nothing visibly amiss, but his skin felt strangely tight—as though he had outgrown it, and so it needed to be molted. "What are you doing to me?"**__****_  
  
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"I have claimed my prize," the shadow said, nonchalant.

Sora looked over and said slowly, "You took a memory?"

"Yes, so you can rest assured: I did not pilfer any of your internal organs instead."

"But you really took a memory?"

The shadow sighed and sipped its tea.

"Which memory did you take?"

Sip.

"Your last birthday."

Sip.

"I . . . I don't—don't remember it," Sora said quietly.

Sip. The shadow grinned behind the rim of its cup.

". . . Oh. Of course. . . . Shit."

"This tea is rather good for coming from memory. My compliments."

A hysterical note crept into Sora's voice. "I really don't remember any of it!"

"That is the point of having one of your memories taken away. Honestly. We're playing for keeps—didn't you know?"

"Can't we play another round?" he said pleadingly. "Right now! Let's play another round. I want to win back that memory."

"You've already lost it. I thought you wanted the letters and the ability to return home, seeing as that's what you originally agreed to play for."

"I did, but . . . but I want my memories to be intact too."

"How selfish," the shadow mumbled, pondering. "For this next round, I'll cater to your wish—but after that you will not know me by my mercy. However, before we start again, I must remove my cloak. Leather is much too stifling for a climate such as this."

The cloak's bulky silver zipper growled all the way down. Shrugging out of its leather confines, the shadow revealed itself to be undeniably human: its body was lean and strong, a young man's body, and he wore rich, draping clothes of royal purples and blues. The mysterious hood slid down anti-climatically to reveal that the man had disheveled auburn hair, pale skin, and bright green eyes. He plucked off his gloves—his fingers were long and bony—and laid them on the table beside the cards.

"So you're really not a Heartless," Sora said, squinting.

"A Heartless would never exercise the wonderful fashion sense I am blessed with," the shadow cum man said and rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm not a fucking Heartless!"

"I don't want to keep calling you 'Postman' or 'asshole,' so . . ."

"My name is Axel," the man said. "Commit it to memory—or what memory you have left, anyway."**__**

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_ PLEASE_**__****_  
  
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"I—I know you!"

"Excuse me?" Axel said, elegantly arching an eyebrow.

Sora pointed at him with wide eyes. "I know you!"

"Don't be an idiot."

"I do! I know you . . . I don't remember knowing you, but I know you!"

"That's fascinatingly complex," Axel muttered, wiping sweat from neck and forehead with a fancy indigo handkerchief taken from his vest pocket. "I should have chosen a colder memory. The humidity is so high here."

"You took the memory of yourself, didn't you?!" Sora yelled.

"Sit down. You're acting like a nutcase. I already told you which memory I took."

Slowly, Sora settled back onto the wicker chair with a frown. "Yeah . . ."

Axel sipped his tea and grimaced. "Blech! That figures, too. It's getting lukewarm already."


	4. Act IV

_Author's notes: They got rid of paragraphs. This really sucks. I'm too lazy to go back and format the other chapters to match this one, so we'll have to make due. As for this chapter, it's very confusing—but you'll understand it eventually.  
  
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PLAYING FOR KEEPS**

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_Act IV__  
  
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He hit the cell floor and scraped his cheek. His captors pinned him down immediately: one straddled his waist and held his shoulders while another shut thick shackles around his wrists. Fighting them proved to be a short-lived endeavor: a long, blunt object cracked his legs when he tried to worm away—he shrieked, confused and very much in pain. They used his hurting inattention to drag him to the far wall. Like a prize catch, he was strung up with chains attached to his shackles and anchored to the sturdy metal framework protruding from the wall. His shirt had ridden up—he didn't know where his jumper was—and the stone wall felt frosty on his bare skin. It was nighttime. Through a small rectangular window he could see the stars, millions of them, and they were beautiful.

If it weren't for the burning, too-real pain in his lower back, he could have sworn this was just another bad dream.

A jittery somebody held a candle at the doorway; the light fluttered and bounced to a vexing degree, casting shadows where there ought to be none and providing very little light besides. He saw nothing of his captors beyond their hulking silhouettes. One gruffly demanded the candle-man keep still, but no change was made.

"Where am I?" he screamed. "Where am I?"

The blunt object belted his mouth, cutting his lip. Liquid warmth dribbled down his chin. He tasted the blood experimentally.

"Shut up, damn it—or we'll gag you."

They had to gag him thirty seconds later. He gnawed on the cloth bunched up in his mouth and secured by a strip slung around his head. Violent curses came out as embarrassing whimpers. His back hurt so much—but he focused on the pain and knew that he was alive. More people came to the door and they jostled the candle-man from side to side, chasing away shadows and also paradoxically producing more at any given moment. He recognized none of their voices.

A warm hand cupped his cheek and forced his head to the left. A penlight shined into his eye and he winced away from it, but the blunt object landed another blow and someone else protested sharply. He forced his eyes open. Dizziness and queasiness quickly overwhelmed him.

"His reflexes seem okay," a strained voice reported.

"Help me," he said into the gag.

"Sora. Sora? Sora, can you hear me . . . ?"

"What happened to him?" someone asked.

One edgy voice answered: "He was found wandering around outside—completely out of his mind. He didn't even recognize his own name. Everyone expected him to be armed and dangerous after what he did to his escorts, but he was approachable and seemed harmless. We got hold of him after that, and then he started demanding to be let go, and we fought with him all the way here. He didn't draw the Keyblade once, strangely . . . but he kept screaming 'I hate you, I hate you' at us."

"Maybe I could have prevented this," the strained voice said. "It's—presenile dementia, as far as I can tell. Something broke inside. A few days ago he had been perfectly okay except for some weakness in his immune system and a sore throat . . ."

"The Court ordered him bound and imprisoned when they found out he had come back. They didn't know what else to do with him," another someone said in a hushed whisper. "All of Disney Kingdom is in an uproar because they don't know what's going on—just that their king is missing and no one will tell them anything. The Court is waiting for your professional opinion of Sora, Doctor, before they do anything."

"I know," the strained voice—the physician's—said. "Tell them to wait a while longer. I'm heading back to my library to research these symptoms. This may not be what it appears, especially since he's so young; even if it truly is full-blown dementia, I'm going to do whatever I can for him."

"What do you want us to do in the meantime?"

"Keep an eye on him. Report directly to me if any strange activity starts up—forget the Court for now. And for goodness' sake, don't hit him! Internal bleeding isn't going to help solve this."

Dark, seething frustration welled up in Sora's heart and threatened to burst out. He didn't understand any of what they were talking about. Axel had told him about these people, about whom they were and what they wanted to do to him. Sora knew that he had to get away as soon as possible. Beyond this panicked knowledge, he also knew the burning pain they were responsible for, his agonizing hatred for everyone responsible, and the merciless anger pulsating behind his eyes like a migraine. People moved around him, leaving the cell to hide outside and watch him from the door's barred window. He snarled behind the gag and choked on blood.

"What did he do to his escorts?" someone outside wondered.

"He damn near killed them, that's what. They're both in comas last I heard."

Time was meaningless. Sora brooded in collection of bleak emotions and listened to the voices of his captors bounce back and forth. Without meaning to, but with well-practiced ease, he imagined stealing their voices in an insane series of visions that almost blended into the real world. The Key was in his hands, though he couldn't recall ever wielding it before, and he had the tines pressed against one of their necks. They were screaming and crying and pleading. He said to the first captor, grim and menacing, _Your__ power is nowhere near my own._ And then—like it was the natural thing to do—he smudged the flaw away and went on to the next captor, who repeated the first's slobbering display and still ended up as an unpleasant pool of gore. Whoever came at him learned to bow before they were killed. Sora was grinning at the red smears left on the Key, and also grinning against the gag as the conversation beyond the door continued. Yes—this was the power Axel had talked about, this ability to eliminate the inferior and revel in it. This was—

_Axel_, he thought suddenly. _Axel. Axel. Axel, you're such an asshole. You're a traitor. Where the fuck are you? Come here, Axel—destroy them! Destroy them for me! Help! Come for me. Your traitor. You deserter. You were right when you told me they were all worthless. I hate them so much, Axel. I hate all of them so much. They're hurting me and you were right when you said they didn't want to do anything but hurt me and you. Please come and destroy them . . . Let me be free!_

"Anyway, that's what happened when this—what the—hey, you—!"

"So sorry to intrude, gentlemen, but might I get through?"

"Who the holy fuck are you? Where did you come from?!"

"I'm a comrade of your prisoner. Would you be so kind as to open up?"

"Are you kidding? I don't know who you think you are, but you can't go anywhere near him."

"—Unhand me. Now."

A wet sound rinsed the walls, one that was like slopping paint or a rupturing water balloon, and someone screamed behind their hands. The candle holder clattered when it hit the floor, its light blowing out in the fall. Two heavy sets of footsteps joined together in the unprepared dance of an ensuing scuffle. White fire licked at the window's iron bars, but it couldn't have come from the candle because that was already snuffed out and the fire was too bright and fierce anyway.

The muffled scream continued unabashedly, accompanied now by the intruder's smooth laughter until a great and disgusting _slosh!_ brought silence. The shadows snickered and bowed, retreating to the corners after their voyeurism, and then a darker, broader, more malevolent shadow opened the door and stepped inside the cell.

"I finally found you," Axel said as he came closer. From his cloak he withdrew a few matches; he struck one against the wall and transferred its flame to the candle he had also rescued. "I told you to stay put, and instead you ran off!"

"Mmph."

Axel stooped and pulled off the gag. "Sora, what would you do without me?"

"Sorry," he said, unaccustomed to the name and yet knowing it was his. Axel set down the candle holder and Sora watched its yellow bulb dance. "I didn't realize how close I had gotten to the castle until they spotted me."

"Regardless of your apologies, I ought to teach you a lesson for ignoring my orders." Axel slid down his hood and smiled at Sora, who looked so stricken. "I might be persuaded to take so other sort of reparation for my trouble, however."

"I've already given you so much," Sora said, grimacing. "I'll get out of this myself."

Sora strained against his binds, but every movement was fruitless and tiring. Having his arms suspended over his head had allowed pins and needles to sneak into his biceps, and they hurt. Axel grinned and chuckled, his eyes feral in the fluctuating light of the candle, and did not do anything but look on as Sora fought with the shackles.

"—What do you want?" Sora said when the chains and locks proved to be too much for him. He slouched against the icy wall and lowered his chin. "I can't stay here."

"I'm fairly certain you keep what I want on you at all times," Axel said, intuitively guiding his hands down to the hem of Sora's shirt. He investigated with touch alone, found nothing more than the smooth flesh of a half-exposed midriff, and so moved lower to the dark shorts and its two deep pockets. Ignoring Sora's obvious discomfort, he searched each thoroughly. "It's a lucky charm that you have no use for, so I doubt you'll mind parting with it."

Axel grinned wickedly when he heard the tell-tale clink. His fingers closed around a handful of reparations and drew them out, a glittery collection of five that he dangled in front of the light for inspection. A lucent butterfly, a florescent star, a blood red rose, a bronze medallion, and a burnished lamp: keychains, every one. He picked through them carefully and selected the florescent star, then unceremoniously dumped the rest onto the floor.

"That's . . ."

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_she__ presses it into my hand and her hands are cool and dry and touchable__  
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"Oathkeeper," Axel provided, tinkering with the keychain's silver clip. "I'll take this in exchange for your freedom. Doesn't that sound good?"_  
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_and__ she says "be sure to bring it back to me" and i promise her that i will__  
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"You can't take that one," Sora said tersely.

"Why not?" Axel's eyes were sharp and suspicious. "It's worthless, but I think it would go rather well with my white satin regalia."_  
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_i'll__ never be alone again so long as I remember the way she smiled at me and i have to leave her here because it's too dangerous but i'll come back__  
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The memory of why this keychain meant so much was like something on the tip of his tongue. "I can't . . . I can't remember why . . ."

"Then it's settled."_  
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_her__ smile doesn't judge me and i know she truly believes i can save us all from the darkness__  
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"No!" Sora shouted, lashing out with renewed vigor as far as the chains would permit. "No, no, no! You can't take that one! You just can't!"

"Your logic amazes me," muttered Axel glumly as he thumbed a point on the keychain's star. "I require _something _in order to free you—it's only fair we practice equivalent trade. This still meaning so much to you is kind of upsetting . . ."

"Just give it back, Axel."

Oathkeeper tumbled onto the others. "Whatever. There are only five keychains here, though. Where are your others?"

Flooded with strangled relief, Sora barely processed the question. "My other . . . what?"

"Your other keychains," Axel reiterated. "Pumpkinhead, Lady Luck, Wishing Star, Oblivion, and the rest—where are they?"

"I don't remember," Sora said. "I don't even remember what they look like."

"Think hard, or I'll just take Oathkeeper—"

"No! They're—they're—"_  
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_i__ open an inconspicuous cardboard shoebox and dump them in there with other odds and ends: candy wrappers and antique coins and__  
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And the answer came to him in a rushed flash of images.

"My room! The shoebox!" he exclaimed. He remembered nothing because he no longer had those memories, but inside his head there lurked sensations that sometimes were able to manifest as something interpretable. It felt like he was sharing his mind with someone else who didn't speak up very often—but now this someone was learning how to communicate again.

"Very good," Axel said and patted his comrade's cheek. "Let me comb through those and I might find something more chic than Oathkeeper."

Sora knew instinctively that style did not motivate Axel when concerning the keychains; nonetheless, he acceded to that plan. Axel displayed a filched set of keys and undid the locks. Chains slithered away, tinkling altissimo, and dropped raucously into a pile. Leaning forward onto his knees, Sora massaged life back into his arms while avoiding the tender red welts encircling his wrists.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Axel straightened and appraised him. "You look like shit, by the way."

His lip was cut superficially, but it stung. "Believe me, I know."

"Let's not dawdle over your bruises too long," Axel said and flipped up his hood. "Someone will come by eventually, so we don't want to waste more time."

Cupping his hands, Sora scooped up the keychains and deposited them back in his pocket. He stood without taking Axel's extended arm and then wished he had when his muscles kinked. Bruises were not his only problem obviously; to call the whole of his injuries a "bruise" was a gross understatement. Axel waited impatiently with the candle holder while Sora fought to stay upright.

"I'm not really sure where my room _is_," Sora whispered at length. "We might run into someone before we get—"

"It's somewhere by the royal repository. I know where that is, and I'll let you take it from there."

"All right . . ."

Axel nodded, motioned for silence, and then checked the hallway. There hadn't been another patrol pass-by thus far, but he risked nothing as he headed out of the cell and to the left; his spare fingers curled over the candle flame to create a muted corona that did not touch the walls. Sora hesitated at the door. The darkness looked harmless enough and his comrade led him onward, but a fussy little instinct told him something was very wrong.

"Coming?" Axel said in an echo.

Sora's first three strides were copasetic because there was ground underfoot and nothing lying in wait to grab him and gobble him up. The fourth stride, however, was like stepping onto a wet floor: his foot only budged an inch or so, sliding through something thick and slippery, and he reached out reflexively to the wall where his fingers also slid in the same slick substance. Hot lead settled in his stomach because something was—indeed, as suggested by instinct—_very _wrong.

"What is this?" Sora said, keeping his balance as he pulled his fingers away. The liquid was kind of sticky when on his skin, and it webbed between his fingers. He couldn't identify it without light, but it smelt sickly-sweet. "Axel—?"

"What the hell is taking you so long?"

Falteringly, Sora tried wiping off his fingers and then continued walking, though each step was frightening for the split-seconds his feet glided through the muck. The sickly-sweet odor followed him and intensified—it was like stepping into a room of blooming roses—but he began to notice the smell of burnt meat almost hidden beneath the flowers. He felt queasier and queasier with every step, and he stopped again just a few feet from Axel when he heard the distinct _crunch_ of something brittle underfoot.

_The guards_, he realized all at once. _Where are the guards? What did Axel do to them?_

"What happened?" he said loudly.

"Keep your voice down!" Axel hissed. He was standing at top of a stairway that led down from the prison tower, still dimming the candle so only the edges of his hood were illuminated. "Just get over here and stay close."

_I wanted them to die so painfully_, Sora thought and lifted his hands. _I imagined that they were screaming and that there was blood everywhere. I hated them. But . . . but . . . did they really . . . ?_

He turned and pointed at the hallway he had gone down; despite all he had wished and possibly done, despite all the darkness that had been corroding his heart, a familiar weight actualized between his sticky palms. One unspoken thought later, the Key glowed and banished the darkness with a scalding fireball. It traveled the hallway's entire length, brightening the floor and walls and ceiling until it broke, hot and angry, against the farthest wall. The shadows rushed back instantly, but there had been enough time to see . . .

Blood. Blood everywhere, like he had fantasized. There seemed to be an unnatural volume of it for belonging to two people: a sheet of it coated the ground, entire portions of the walls were awash, and even the ceiling was mottled with it. (As Sora stared at this butchery, a red droplet bowed to gravity and pattered onto his cheek. He did not notice.) Charred remnants of bones, some which he had stepped onto to make that ugly crackle, lied in several ghastly heaps.

"Yes, slaughter is spellbinding," Axel said dryly. "Nothing you won't get used to seeing, Sora."

"Why did you do—this—?"

"I think it was because they wouldn't get out of my way. Yes."

Sora mustered up his revulsion until it overpowered even the profound anger and hatred and frustration he had been feeling for the guardsmen. "You are so fucking sick—"

"_Excuse me?_" Axel rasped. "I think I misunderstood you, because I could've sworn the pot was calling the kettle black."

"They were just people!"

"You wanted them to die too for no more reason than 'they exist and that pisses me off.' Someone is liable to hear your bellyaching at this rate; if you're done, let's go. I don't know how you can operate your little toy when you're sided with me—put that thing away—but I'll figure that out later."_  
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_"yeah we're supposed to keep an eye on you" goofy says and comes at me again__  
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He aimed the Key at Axel. "I'm not like you."

"Of course you are."_  
  
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_they are trying to help me and i know that they're my friends of course they want to help me but i hate them so much for keeping me from doing what i need to do and i'm going to scream and here i go i'm screaming at them and i scream "fine just don't get in my way" and they look at each other like i'm crazy and maybe i am because sometimes i feel like something's broken in me__  
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Suddenly those rushed images really inspired pain.

He cried out and collapsed to his knees. The Key vanished again and his hands splayed out in the blood, but he did not care. "What are you—what have you done to me?!" he wailed. The buried someone in his mind who was discovering how to communicate again did not use any delicacy. It felt like an ice pick was being hammered into his brain. "It's too much—things—pictures in my head—stop making them—_it hurts_!"

"Obviously taking your memories was not as clean a process as I had hoped," Axel said grimly. "There's still some sort of resolution left over, like a bad aftertaste. We'll experiment with that when we get back to Hollow Bastion."

"What—?"_  
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_i__ hear "get 'im goofy" before i see them coming but i'm prepared and the key always does whatever i want it to including hurting my friends if i want that and i do want that so one step two three four five and goofy ends up as a hemorrhage__  
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"Oh Sora, don't you remember?" Axel bent down and lifted Sora's chin with two fingers. "We were playing a game. Remember the game?"

"The card game . . . ?"

"That's right," said Axel, smiling kindly. "You lost the first round. You also lost the second, and the third, and the fourth. You became desperate, and no longer did you want the letters or the power to get home: you just wanted your memories back. So we upped the ante: you laid down four memories and I laid down the four you had lost thus far. When you lost again, you were almost too scared to go on."_  
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_and my power flares and i know i'm better than both of them combined i am not weak i have never needed them so when donald lifts his staff i lift my own and then he is gone in a maelstrom of fire__  
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"You had a gambling addiction: you couldn't stop yourself. The bigger the ante, the more furiously you played. The best thing—for me—was that you continued to lose, and pretty soon you weren't sure who you were." Harsh laughter clawed through Sora's mind. "It got old fairly quickly, but you were rather subdued by the time I wanted to stop despite the delicious accumulation of hatred and pain that filled the voids your memories had left behind. Funny how the mind adapts, yes? Anyway, a break was in order, so I let you back into the real world, and you know what happened next, you naughty boy."_  
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_donald's__ screaming and i'm laughing and laughing and i walk over and say "roasted duck anyone" and he's nothing to me because i am everything__  
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Sora gasped. "My head—really hurts—"

"I know, I know," Axel murmured and shushed Sora. "As soon as we're done here, I'll take you someplace where all of those silly images will stop bothering you."_  
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_i__ can feel his ribs giving way to my foot__  
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Propelled by pain and fear, Sora got back onto his feet, knocked Axel aside, and ran down the stairwell with nary a misgiving. Horror wrapped wet red tentacles around his lungs and breathing was too difficult; his anger drowned and hatred flourished, but this hatred was directed inward rather than outward—he couldn't escape from who he had become. He launched down another hallway to another curving set of stairs, and repeated this many times, leaving viscous footprints behind him. Leisurely, Axel gave chase, his shadow growing longer and longer until it almost covered an entire hallway whenever he entered one. The closeness of thriving shadows tightened Sora's throat. He clawed at his head because "memory residue" needled incessantly. He felt hopelessly lost._  
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_the__ closer you get to the light the greater your shadow becomes__  
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"What's the matter, Sora?" Axel shouted. "Weren't you relishing in the darkness not too long ago? Have you forgotten what I taught you about everything else beyond the shadows?"

"Leave me alone!" Sora yelled, diving down the next stairwell. He tripped on the third step, but he did not sustain a broken neck during the somersault to yet another hallway.

He ran blindly, unsure of where each turn led. It was eerily quiet; he assumed all of the cacophonous stamping and screaming would have alerted _someone _by now, but that was not the case. Windows flew by, bright with moonlight, the dark carpeting lightened to a royal blue whenever it coincided with a window. He heard Axel laugh behind him, seemingly within reach at all times no matter how fast he force his legs to go, no matter how many turns he took, no matter how much he wished to be left alone, and especially no matter how viciously he repented.

Two long, black arms closed around him; he panicked and howled and struggled admirably against the hug's viselike perversion. Shadows covered him, picking at and sticking to his clothes like burs, boiling and buzzing with their own voices. A hand clamped over his mouth and a warm voice tickled his ear.

"Shut up, will you?" Axel murmured darkly. "You're blessed that I took the necessary precautions on my way to liberate your sorry ass, because otherwise there'd be guards all over us."

Sora listened to his heart pounding madly, unable to think.

"If you promise to stop running away, I'll let you go. Can you promise me that?"

"Mmph," Sora said and nodded.

Those inhumanly powerful arms relinquished him. He did not look at Axel and instead studied the way moonlight beautified everything it imbued with milky-white radiance.

"What were the necessary precautions?" he wondered coldly. His eyes strayed over the wall to count doors, yet he knew a room provided no more protection from Axel than the game of cat-and-mouse might. Breaking a window and leaping from it spelled suicide at this height. All in all, his chances of escape were next to none. "Does it have something to do with why no one's come for us? You were so paranoid earlier, so that makes no sense."

Axel purred and laid his hand on Sora's neck. "Always remember to die, no matter how many people you remind in your place."

". . . Have you killed them all?" Sora asked, barely able to control his voice.

"Bloodlust is a fickle ladylove!" Axel proclaimed. "But to answer your question: no, I spared some in case you were up for flexing your wings—so to speak—but I guess that's out. I got my own boots plenty wet, though."

Sora snarled and turned around, throwing out a tight fist in one last desperate attack. It failed miserably when Axel caught that hand a moment from impact; he squeezed until the beginnings of pain caused Sora to wince unwillingly. Inside the hood Axel's eyes shone with moonlight and a special luster that appeared when he demonstrated his power.

"How do you feel now, hmm?" Axel whispered and pressed his other hand to Sora's chest. Energy sparkled between his fingers and he grinned savagely. "How do you really feel now?"

An explosion of red light temporarily blinded Sora; electricity seared his body and he went sailing with the current's force, landing farther down against the wall of shut doors, unable to breathe and also unable to believe he had survived a blast from that nearness. He scratched at the wall, panic-struck, hoping for a doorknob to help him upright before Axel swooped in again, but his fingers met with a thin handle attached to a panel made from something cold, hard, and definitely not stone or wood.

Eyes glittering, Axel stalked toward Sora like a monster right out of mythology. "Get up and fight me if that's what you want!" he yelled. "Otherwise you're going to start respecting those higher on the food chain than you, Sora! I'm the one who will teach you how to swallow your godless pride!"

Sora's brain was out of sync with his legs, lungs, eyes—everything. He stared dazedly at Axel and the oncoming shadows ready to christen him with black thorns again. _Get up, you idiot!_ a lone corner of his mind roared. _Get up! Do you have any idea what's on the wall above you?_

He was so acquainted with answering himself: _I can't . . ._

_The hell you can't. Get up right now, or so help me—I'll figure out a way to kick your ass._

_But you're me—?_

His many processes aligned as Axel amassed another orb of red electricity.

_GET UP, DAMN IT._

He used the thin handle as a lever onto his feet and then faced it to deftly wrench it upward; the stainless steel panel moved away to reveal a dark, vertical shaft that looked like a serious tight fit. Dumbwaiters were stationed on every floor—_I lost that knowledge too!—_and servants used them to bus food and other things wherever need. There was no cart stationed there presently.

But he didn't have enough time to doubt the execution of this lucky improvisation. Shutting his eyes, he wedged himself into the shaft, kicking and pleading and hoping and praying that he hadn't grown too much in the past year. Axel said something and laughed, and another hot blast of energy thrust Sora the remainder of the way inside while also melting away his shoes' soles and singing his ankles. Below him stretched infinite darkness, an abyss made of metal, and he plunged into it head-first._  
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"FUCK!" Axel screamed and struck the wall with his bare fist—it came away unscathed, but the wall received a visible crack. "Things really aren't going as planned."

Next to him, sitting in an old-fashioned wooden wheelchair that hadn't been oiled in forever, a crimson-clad figure said nothing. The man—his gender unapparent outright because he was so thickly covered in cloth and leather straps, save for one glassy eye and the grim line of his mouth—regarded Axel, shook his head, and then looked out the room's expansive floor-to-ceiling windows. The brownish yellow light of a slow sunset turned suspended dust into gold motes and lent antiquity to furnishings. Being inside Hollow Bastion was like stepping into the past: no one had set foot on the premises in at least a year, and it showed in the sheer volume of dust everywhere.

Wispy and tattered shadows encompassed Axel and fed off his anger. He waved them away and muttered "Damn melodramatic things" whenever they stuck to his hair: they were gummy like spider webs and their autonomy made them stubborn. The low creaking of the wheelchair's braces startled him from his fuming. He forgot the creepy-crawly way shadows had of seething over him and instead dedicated his attention to the crimson man.

"Ansem?" he asked with his voice low and reverent. "Do you need something?"

"Anger rests in the bosom of fools," Ansem said.

Axel relaxed, harrumphed, and glanced upward because he expected to see the sword of Damocles. "I have all the right in the world to be angry. It was leashing my impatience in the first place that got us into this cockup."

When Ansem didn't reply, Axel sighed and shrugged off his cloak. Disney Castle was a remote place now, but the bitterness of an impending failure nonetheless taunted him. He compulsively straightened his ruffled cuffs and thought about Sora, that lucky bastard, who had escaped into the dumbwaiter. Chasing the amnesiac would have been an exhausting waste of time, and so Axel came back to obtain further advisement from Ansem—the man dangling the laurels in from of him and the man he owed so much.

Ansem lifted his wrapped fingers and beckoned for Axel, who was obliged to kneel beside the wheelchair. "Train up a child in the way he should go," Ansem said and touched the other man's messy hair, "and when he is old, he will not depart from it."

"I haven't been able to win Sora for you," Axel said quietly. "I made him into a king and showed him the common man's inherent greed. I took away the memories and sentimental things he valued. I taught him how to hate and rage absolutely, and even how to lust for death."

"A righteous man falls seven times, and rises again."

"Aren't you listening? This is going to be a spectacular defeat on our part if something isn't done, and I don't know if there is anything I _can_ do to salvage our plan."

"Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete—and not lacking anything," Ansem said, smiling. His hands cupped Axel's face gently, as if handling glass. "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and it will be opened to you."

"I need you wisdom. He is beyond my influence right now . . . his stubbornness obstructs my charm and the charm of darkness."

"Do not fear, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them."

"I don't understand you at all."

The air was warm and heavy, and littered with the sounds of banging and pounding. Beyond the walls that housed them, a million shadows toiled to rebuild a castle damaged by the fighting that had occurred there once upon a time. Night would soon come to Hollow Bastion; candles that were interspersed throughout the room came to life when Axel directed a half-lidded, smoldering gaze at them. Disney Castle was closer to morning.

Axel turned his mouth to Ansem's palm and against it he whispered, "Sora began to remember what he wasn't supposed to. You said the game would work flawlessly, but something interfered . . . within him hide the negatives of photographs I swiped."

"Love your enemies: bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you."

"How is that supposed to help me?" Axel groused. "I'd like to knock out his teeth, really. Are you certain this kid would be of any help to us? Any predilection to darkness he has I've already exploited, and yet there's always some light keeping him from going under. I understand that his power is great, but I've bested him more than once, so I'm already what he is not—"

Ansem removed both hands as if he had been burnt, and Axel looked up to see the cold fury in the man's exposed eye. Axel immediately identified his Freudian slip and the severity of it: he had implied that his own power trumped Ansem's, the man who had given him and so many others powerful physical forms after what seemed like an eternity lost inside the In-Between. When a palm cracked across his cheek, Axel knew he had deserved it.

"I'm sorry," Axel whispered, touching the stinging skin. "I owe you too much to have even thought that. I'm sorry. Forgive me, Ansem, for your power is greatest."

Ansem's ire did not lessen. "Flattery is a form of hatred!"

Twilight then pervaded the room and the candles worked to stave it aside. Axel sulked in the oncoming implosion of their plan and the foolishness he felt for aggravating Ansem. What was there left for him to do? Sora was uncooperative, while Ansem felt too insulted now to be of any assistance—privately, Axel anticipated being hauled away by the shadows and cannibalized for his failures. All he had to show for his efforts was the playing cards with Sora's memories stored inside them. There was no more he could take from Sora.

"The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked," Ansem said tenderly and reached for Axel again. "Who can know it?"

"Death never entered the equation before," Axel said and shut his eyes. "We could conquer Sora by destroying him, a dubious task indeed, but then we wouldn't have to worry about neither his interference nor his facilitation."

"I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in truth."

"You know, I hate it when you talk like that . . ."

Someone else threw in a curt, malicious: "Stop bitching."

"Vixen," Axel said, eyes flashing open. "I'm having a private conversation with Ansem—do you mind?"

In the doorway stood another man who resembled Axel as far as the affinity for dark cloaks went. Vixen—that was indeed his name, a name that hadn't been his choice to receive—had a wan face and long, disorderly blonde hair held back by a tie. Diligence held him rigidly; outlined by the candlelight, he looked like a slim knife fashioned from ebony, and apparently his tongue was just as sharp.

"I need to speak with you, Axel," Vixen said. "Alone."

"Fine."

Ansem smiled patiently at the two men as they left.

Once in the hallway and out of earshot, Axel shoved his fashion duplicate against the wall and growled menacingly, "What do you want, fool? Don't you have repairs or some other menial tasks to oversee?"

Vixen looked contemptuously at the hands abusing him. "I just wanted to wish you luck," he muttered and shook Axel off. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"I'm not surprised that you were eavesdropping, but don't try to make me laugh. I know what you're playing at."

"The others and I just want you to know—since you're Ansem's favorite and all—we wish you the best of luck with this impossible task you've been assigned. Killing the Keyblade Master, is it?" Vixen flashed a too-bright, too-cheery smile. "I'm next on the pecking order, if you didn't know. Should you fail, and you should, I'll finally be able to prove myself to Ansem."

"Tell someone who fucking cares," Axel hissed, shoving Vixen again. "Go masturbate to your little fantasies. I've got work to do."

"No, really—good luck! We'll all be awaiting your triumphant return!"

Expelling a string of profanities, Axel turned away and disbanded into a cloud of purling shadows.


	5. Act V

_Author's notes: Well, beyond this Act there is only the epilogue. It has been fun. Enjoy!_

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**PLAYING FOR KEEPS**

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_Act V_

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Sora was lucky to have avoided breaking his neck after diving into the empty dumbwaiter. The harrowing journey through darkness with slick metal all around him seemed far more terrifying than whimsically Wonderland. There had been no indication of the floors flying past; there had been no open panels, or even markings suggesting they were there. When blind terror clogged his heart, he imagined the fresh splatter of Sora-meat at the bottom of the shaft or the mangled corpse that had sooner collided with a dumbwaiter cart stopped somewhere before ground level.

Only his reflexes saved him from those fates when a slim square lit by moonlight came at him. He was moving slowly enough at the time, squeezing against the shaft's sides with his limbs, to be able to clamber out of the shaft upside-down and then topple onto his face.

Laying his forehead on the floor in front of a godsend of the open dumbwaiter an unknown number of floors down, he choked on vomit and panic while trying to figure out what to do next.

Dawn approached: his savior, moonlight, receded from the windows as a rosy aurora threatened the skyline with morning. Sora felt the castle breathe and stretch, flexing its construction, ready to greet another day; an alarm clock shrilled distantly; heavy footsteps raced down an adjacent hallway. Standing up was easier said than done, while trying to quickly elude the sounds of waking castle inhabitants yielded only a stumbling sort of lope—his legs had all but jellified, mind, as legs do after close calls with death.

Unfortunately his memories were required to aptly navigate the castle, for there dwelt too many twists and turns to get caught up in. The best substitute for a map he had were his fleeting prayers that he might be able to sneak around long enough to find an exit without being caught. Around every corner he expected to find Axel waiting for him with open arms strong enough to crush ribs during the next angry hug. He avoided sunlight by sneaking to and from shrinking shadows, hastening down enclosed spiral staircases whenever he encountered them, and (should he hear a voice or footsteps) diving behind the occasional suit of armor or large potted plant.

It was a nerve-wracking experience, and also frustrating, because he was supposed to remember these hallways, these voices fading in and out, these ugly floral patterns on the wallpaper—even these doors with their elegant gold placards. As he passed a window niche with two tasseled throw pillows, he imagined sitting there to watch a thunderstorm or the stars during a bout with insomnia. He imagined it being peaceful there when he was alone with thoughts that didn't know death and loss and pain all the time. Of course, he had no recollection of ever spending time there. As he lingered for a few seconds more, he promised himself that he would rectify his situation and then come back to this window niche. He would appreciate the simplest things—the simplest luxuries—and hold onto them fiercely. He would watch the thunderstorms and stars again.

An hour of unsuccessful maundering butchered his determination. There resided only so much patience in him, and since each hallway looked exactly like the first, he didn't know how long he could stand wandering around. The windows provided no clue as to whether or not he was any closer to the ground. Freedom always looked too far away. On top of that, narrow escapes were becoming more and more frequent, and his prayers for safety were becoming more and more incoherent. He wouldn't have the immunity of good luck forever.

Right now, the voices were too close to go on. Sora cowered behind the giant basket fern, curled into the tightest ball possible.

_Don't breathe!_ said that quiet, removed shard of himself.

"Why d-didn't anyone check sooner?!"

"I'm really gonna be sick—"

_Don't even think._

"We can't stop! We have to tell the Court right away!"

"Who could—who could do such a thing—"

Someone retched only a couple feet away, splattering the expensive royal carpet. Sora slammed his eyes shut and devoted every part of fractured spirit to aimless prayers; enfeeblement made his thoughts random and abstract, mostly constructed of images rather than words; amidst the swirling montage of things, he wondered when he had last slept properly. Fatigue turned his limbs into lead, his eyeballs into fire, and his saliva into glue. He wanted more than anything else to find someplace to sit down and cry—

_Stop being a pussy_, that shard of him ordered. _Keyblade Masters don't cry._

_But I don't know how to get out of this mess! I'm fucked._ Here came a vivid series of snapshots detailing the ideated torture he would be put through once imprisoned again. _I'm going to be caught—_the rack—_and thrown back in jail—_dismemberment—_and Axel will just come and laugh and laugh—_the iron maiden­­_—and laugh. I have a headache—_cat-o'-nine-tails_—and I'm hungry, and . . ._

"I'm going to have nightmares for weeks," said a wobbly voice. "It was all over the w-walls . . ."

"Me too," whispered the other voice. "But—but we have to get going, because who knows if that maniac is still around and the Court is just now assembling for breakfast . . ."

And just like that, the voices moved on.

_You're not lost_, his shard said. _You're only a few stories away from freedom. Can't you remember?_

Sora sniffed and rubbed at his nose and eyes with the heel of his palm. While he valued the encouragement from that split-personality of his, he didn't know if words alone were enough to refuel him. No shadows lingered between the windows or in the corners to help him now. The halls were aglow with sunshine. He crawled out from behind the potted plant.

_Run_, he told his legs silently. _Run._

Maybe one good sprint was left in him. He collected the fragments of his strength, resolve, and hope; he patched them together to produce a coin of warmth, which he inserted into his heart. His arms hung as deadweights, he could barely open his eyes, his torpid tongue was grossly bitter—yet he still ran. Halfway down the next stairwell he bumped into someone, but the resulting shower of documents lost from their hands tolerated his moving on with impunity. He ran, and ran, and ran, and ran, and ran.

The grand staircase was never a more welcome sight. He arrived, breathing hard and knowing that, thus far, no one had noticed him. Breakfast had not yet been served, but from his vantage point he could see a few servants shuffling around the hallway that led to the anteroom.

_I ate in that room, but I don't remember_, he thought and frowned. He snuck along the banister, timing his movements to coincide with the servants' absences so he could avoid being seen any sooner than necessary. At times he ducked down and the wide white balustrades marginally concealed him from casual glances; however, if a servant were to investigate further, he would have no hope of remaining undetected. Whenever cringing behind the railing, he studied the portraits hung on the opposite wall. They were all paintings of former kings and queens, and expertly done: the colors were vibrant, the polishes smooth, the frames tasteful.

_I walked up these stairs, but I don't remember_. He wanted to cut his losses and charge down the steps, throwing himself into freedom's embrace dramatically—but he didn't want to hazard being detained. Regrettably he wasted a lot of time puttering on the staircase to prolong being seen, and the more time he wasted the more exhausted he became, and the more exhausted he became the less coherently he thought, and—

_I used to . . . I used to . . . uh . . ._

—well, his better judgment also suffered.

Somewhere in the middle of the staircase, when he looked up at the portraits, the king—a mere kid, really!—sitting on the throne wore a cheeky, exuberant little grin and seemed awfully familiar.

_I was made King. I posed for that portrait. . . . But I don't remember._ Axel had stolen his memories, those very important memories. Rather poignantly, Sora realized that his memories were what constituted his identity. The fusion of emotions, beliefs, ideas, and experiences created his identity. His life. Memories made him who he was. Memories were the only records he had that really said _I was here_. Memories taught him lessons and made him smile and even made him cry even though pigheadedness wouldn't let him acknowledge that.

Sitting there, having to believe his name was Sora and he had been King because Axel said so, he felt like an impostor—like he was borrowing the real Sora's body, displacing his mind (_What about the little voice, huh? Who is THAT?_), taking root in what was otherwise a dry husk prepared for inhabitation by Axel's trickery. Not only did he feel injustice as Sora, someone deprived of his identity, but he also felt injustice as Nobody: a body-snatcher who Axel had attempted to employ for his dark agenda.

He had to correct all of these wrongs. If he—Sora, Nobody, whoever he was—wanted to one day recline in the window seat, he had to proceed with reckless abandon. He bit his bottom lip and nodded to the portrait, the painting of who he had been. He issued another promise. Then, in a spasm of movement, overcoming the objections of his frazzled instincts, he raced down the stairs and lunged into the frontmost foyer before a stray servant could look his way.

The sky was filled with morning and he shielded his eyes against the glaring blue, adjusting to its brightness through his fingers. He trusted his luck now—it had gotten him this far—but he did not delude himself into thinking he could amble down the exterior marble steps undetected. As an alternative, he crept along the castle wall; stone led to mulch and also to a cover of tall shrubs, which he trod behind. He rested against the wall, soaking in the dew and a woodsy smells, and congratulated himself for an escape made good. That hushed inner voice of his did not speak up, but he knew it was proud too.

"The hard part is over now," he verified aloud. "Now, to find Axel—"

"It's about time you got out," said a shadow lurking among the shrubs' branches. "I've been waiting."

His mind jammed. He could do no more than watch as the shadow slunk to the ground and then augmented up into a recognizable humanoid form. Axel glared at Sora, his bright green eyes vivid when against the backdrop of dark conifers. A teeth-baring grimace cut through the shadiness like a razor.

"We have some unfinished business to take care of," Axel said. "I'd like you to come with me—now."

"Unfinished business?" Sora asked. His throat was coarse.

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_"you could have said 'this is like old maid not gold fish' you know" and i'm nodding and grinning like an idiot as i flummox the shadow_

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His eyes widened. "No! The things—they're coming back—"

"I'm talking about the game of cards, Sora—the game you apparently 'remember' something about by now. We never got around to the final round because I had decided to take a break. I've had to endure letting you run amok ever since."

Axel leered and grabbed Sora's wrist; his grip was uncomfortably snug.

"Let—let me go!" Sora shouted.

"Shall we, then?"

The world shattered around them.

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* * *

* * *

Returning to the memory of Destiny Islands was disorienting, but painless. Odds and ends of the real world floated down around him in prismatic snowflakes that caught and deflected the sunlight. Morning dew and arboreous smells succumbed to humidity and salty spray. Gulls revived from small discharges of sparkling feathers. The ocean filled instantaneously and beat against the unrolling beach, and the tide was closer than Sora remembered. The wicker glass-top table and the wicker chairs, the fine china tea set, the shady canopy crafted from convenient, intermingled palm fronds: it was all there, untouched, ready for them again.

"The final round," Axel announced, while sitting and gesturing to Sora's own seat, "begins right now."

Sora eyed him shrewdly. "What are the stakes?"

"Should I win, I will take every last one of your memories. I will then destroy them so you will never be able to gain them back."

Perching on the edge of his seat, Sora contemplated these terms. Axel had told him about the losing streak from before, and he didn't know if there was any way to win against someone who was probably playing the loopholes to cheat. Sora could reject the terms, but there was no other way to secure what had been purloined from him. The betting odds were against him, but he had to play the final round—and he had to win. If he didn't, there would be no hope left.

"What will happen to me if you take all of my memories?"

"When I mean all of them, I'm even talking about the unconscious ones you have that you aren't even aware of. I'd be taking the instructions for your brain, also known as the instructions that allow you to function. Your heart will forget how to pump—your lungs will forget how to breathe—and to make a long story short, you will die."

Bleak horror ate through Sora as his fists clenched. He supposed, in the part of his mind not reserved for self-doubt, that dying was preferable to a lifetime spent without an identity, "living" as Nobody. He swallowed and tried to make himself stop shaking like a windblown strand of tinsel. He was afraid, exhausted, and angry. But above all else, he was stubborn. His stubbornness quelled his hot shivers; his stubbornness made him smile at Axel.

"What are you so happy about?" Axel demanded. He shed his gloves and cloak, and from the latter he removed the infamous, elongated playing cards. "I don't think you're going to break your losing streak with this game. I'd walk away right now if I were you; I'm not forcing you to be here if you're going to be a spoilsport about losing . . . though taking the breath from your lungs is going to be _really _enjoyable . . ."

"You say you've already won," Sora said. That smile quirked his lips higher, refusing to be displaced by fear or fatigue. His cheeks began to ache, but that pain felt good because lately he didn't have many reasons to smile. "You act like you could just as well reach over and strangle me for real. Forget about your stupid game. Let's have it out physically if you're yearning for a piece of me."

Uncertainty formicated in Axel's eyes, dampening their brilliance. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, shuffling the cards. "The card game is an avenue to your destruction that doesn't require my hands to get dirty. I prefer it this way. You should take the threat of death seriously, too, for life is precious! Please savor your final moments."

"You've never fought me with anything more than words or cards! You're a wimp, you're a weakling—you're nothing!" Sora yelled, standing up and laying his fists on the table. "As soon as you admit to that, I'll play the game!"

Axel squinted and twitched, but did not rise to the gibe. "It's perfectly understandable if you're afraid," he said in a controlled voice.

"I'm not afraid of _you_," said Sora, "but it's obvious that you're afraid of _me._ Am I hitting any nerves yet? How does it feel to know that the person you're so certain is the loser is actually the winner? You have to kill me with a card game because your own power can't do the job! I'm far more admirable than you'll ever be because I don't have to hide behind a cheap method like this."

"You're a FOOL!" That was enough. Axel whipped out an arm and knocked the china teapot onto the ground; it crashed and split apart, splashing the sand with hot tea. "You don't think I can stand toe-to-toe with the Keyblade Master? I've already established how much more powerful I am than you are! Nothing about you impresses me. I almost don't believe you defeated Ansem—"

"Ansem!" Sora cackled, leaning forward. "Ansem, Ansem, _Ansem._ Now that's a familiar name. Where do I remember that name from, do you think?"

A spark leapt from one of the playing cards.

* * *

_ansem is framed against the sky and he's talking but i don't care what he's saying i just want to stop him for all he's done and all he's planning to do because no matter who or what he eclipses i'll always be there to shine amidst his darkness_

* * *

"Oh—_Ansem_," Sora said, crooning the name some more. "I remember _Ansem._ He was such a _pushover._"

"He's your ultimate downfall," Axel said, flinching. "He's the one—"

"So he's the mastermind who sent you?" Sora redoubled his smile's vehemence. "I guess I really did fuck him up if he thinks you're the one who will be able to defeat me once and for all."

Axel bristled visibly, and Sora knew he had struck something deep. "You should be thanking me for killing you rather than letting Ansem do it personally!" the man shouted, slamming his playing cards down. "He doesn't have enough time to bother with a stupid, unworthy kid like you, Sora—you don't deserve to die directly by his hand. You're a mere blip on the radar; there are far more important targets to go after!"

"Is that so?" Sora said dangerously. "You tell me to take death seriously, but I really think you should practice what you preach. I'm the one who defeated Ansem, and just so you know: it was startlingly easy."

The cards issued more sparks; Axel looked at them, his bewilderment obvious.

* * *

_i wail into ansem with the keyblade and he's screaming and laughing but i see the blood it pools like shadows and his eyes are fever-bright and i'm screaming with everything that's been pent up inside of me since all this started and this stroke is for riku and this one for kairi and these for everyone else he hurt and i'm not going to let them down i'm not going to give in i'm not going to fall i'm not i'm not i'm not i'm not i'm not i'm not i'm NOT_

* * *

Axel's attention shifted away after that pause, confusion yielding to joyful rage. "Ansem is no longer a man confined to the mortal coil! He can do so much more now—he's more powerful than you could possibly imagine—and he has you to thank for it! Thank you, Keyblade Master!"

"Then as soon as I've dealt with you, I'll make sure to find him and finish the job properly, no matter how powerful he is!"

"Go on believing that until your last breath if you wish it. Within the next hour, you'll be no more than a memory of an unstable, faux king in the eyes of your former citizens."

"Fulfill your prophecy. I'm waiting."

Sora jeered at Axel, who did little more than stare at him—and for one fleeting moment, Sora thought he had outstripped Axel in verbal warfare.

"Well, if you insist. But first—"

Axel moved forward, stretched out an arm, and firmly wrapped his fingers around Sora's silver crown necklace. It was a piece of jewelry Sora only realized existed when he felt the chain bite into his neck. Two hard jolts were required to break the clasp; Axel returned to his former position, palming the charm for Sora to see.

"Don't you think this would go gorgeously with my vesture?" Axel said, openly admiring the necklace.

* * *

_it's shiny and smooth to the touch and it's just so wicked i look up at kairi and i promise her silent that i'll wear it every day for forever and ever just like i later promise her i'll bring back oathkeeper_

* * *

"NO!" Sora screeched. "GIVE—THAT—BACK!"

"What's it to you?" Axel said, grinning and knowing damn well what the necklace meant—just like he had known what the keychains were. "Isn't this some paltry trinket your little friend gave you once upon a time?"

Sora hurtled across the table, upsetting the tea set's sugar bowl and the playing cards. Though Axel's reflexes were keen enough to avoid the main attack, one of Sora's errant hands snapped out like a scourge and left long, nasty-looking red marks on the man's face. Axel swore colorfully and stayed behind his chair, backing away as staunching the first trickles of blood with his frilled sleeve. Straightening and smiling, albeit morbidly, Sora held out the responsible hand. There were traces of skin and blood beneath his fingernails.

"I want my necklace back. Now."

"You want to play that sort of game instead, do you?" Axel growled. He released the charm, but held fast to the chain; he swung it back and forth like a pendulum, and it flashed brightly whenever the light hit it at certain angles. "I'm the one giving you a shot to win it all back—the only shot you have. But all the cards are stacked against you if you want to act like you are now. I won't spare you."

"I want my necklace back," Sora said and advanced. There was a glint in his eyes that Axel didn't like. "I want it back right now, asshole."

"Please spare me the reiteration. I heard you the first time." Cautiously, Axel matched Sora's steps; he headed around the table, making sure to keep it between them at all times. "Really—I don't think you understand what you're forsaking."

"You're bluffing," Sora said. "You can't do anything to me or my memories if I don't agree to play your game."

"That makes no sense!"

Sora shrugged and smiled thinly. "Not even the Devil can take your soul if you haven't put your signature on the dotted line. You may have my memories, but you haven't won the right to destroy them. Isn't that how all types of evil operate?"

"I have powers more fearsome than the Devil's."

"Tell me another one."

"Forget it," Axel said. "I'll give you your damn necklace back if you agree to play the game."

"You're _killing me_," Sora laughed. "You're really _fucking with me._"

The Key appeared in his hands. He knocked the glass-top wicker table away—it dissolved upon contact with the Key—and charged, kicking up great clouds of sand behind him. There were many promises he needed to honor, those to himself and those he had given to others, and Axel was just another annoying barrier on the road to atonement.

However, Axel easily dodged the onslaught because he had been anticipating an attack like that, and then he caught Sora's shoulder roughly as the boy rushed past. (The Key's tines came within inches of ripping into Axel's flank, but were not close enough to be too distressing.) Sora gave a startled yelp as his forward momentum disappeared; grunting with effort, Axel yanked the boy with enough negating force to also knock him onto the ground. The sand was more forgiving than stone, so nothing was broken when Sora's head hit first, though the air went out of his lungs with a whimper, his chest knotted up, and he couldn't breathe.

A heel came down on the wrist of the hand holding the Key, preventing Sora from attacking, but Sora was too dazed and exhausted now to even try. He suddenly didn't want to fight anymore; he didn't want to fight off his fatigue, or Axel, or darkness. The Key weighed a hundred pounds and his fingers let go of the handle.

Axel smiled and set that same foot on Sora's upper chest. Sora felt a strange and near-painful twinge there because his collarbone was bending a little too far inward.

"If I moved up a bit and pressed any harder, I could steal your breath without having to enter a damn contract," Axel said, glowering. "I'm a nice guy, Sora—I'm giving you a fair shot, right? But you've wasted a lot of my time, even after I gave you a chance to reconsider your disfavor of the game."

A cool, light-weight something dropped onto Sora's chest (it was the necklace that had been pilfered from him). Axel eclipsed what sunlight Sora could see filtering through the foliage overhead, and the man's smile became lost in the shadows that swept over him. The foot shifted and pushed into the hollow slope of Sora's throat, just below his Adam's apple.

"Death is the only adventure you have left," Axel commented from far away. "I know what you'd say back—don't tell me—'To die would be a great adventure.' I'm so glad you allow me to render this service. You're welcome."

Dying felt weird, Sora decided while lucid thoughts were still his to keep. Dying didn't feel like the real sharp burning of his lungs as they were steadily deprived of oxygen. Dying didn't feel like the real way his mouth dried up or the real way his tongue became too heavy to even attempt forming words with. Dying didn't feel like many real things, all of them the most logical things and the things one should feel when life was being cheated so prematurely. It felt like . . . like he was falling into oblivion.

The world around him dimmed and slipped away; soon Axel's shadow was no more than a distant blotch of black inside what was otherwise _nothing_. Dying was not light or dark, but the absence of both. Dying caused his insides to clench and loosen alarmingly. Dying caused his tears to come fast and hot, sliding down his temples and then dripping onto the sand. Dying caused his memories to come, memories that he hoped were the real ones and not poor afterimages: there were the cherished memories he thought of each and every day, there were the faded memories that worsened over time, there were the silly and the happy and the funny and the crazy and the warm and the mundane and the scary and the sad memories he could never ever let go of.

_I can't move_, his strangled thought said. He wanted to laugh but couldn't. _Dying feels weird._

Axel grinned. "What's the matter, Sora? You no longer have a sharp tongue to waggle at your comrade?"

* * *

_"a keyblade that unlocks people's hearts" my voice is tired and i can hear how it trembles with every word god i've been here for what seems like forever and my body aches like i've never experienced before i just want to go back home with kairi and riku "I wonder" i add and look down at this new keyblade it is long and slim and black and wicked and it throbs with darkness but i can sense it is a poor imitation for the real thing but i have to give kairi her heart back i just have to_

* * *

Bright sparks flashed in the unsteady remainder of Sora's vision, brightening Axel's imposing shadow as they arced by. Something buzzed loudly, right next to his ear; it spit out the sparks that kept intruding upon the nothingness that wanted to swallow him whole. Weakly, Sora's eyes shifted over because his head could not, and through the sheen of tears and pattern of eyelashes, even from where he was floating away into oblivion, he saw all the playing cards scattered across the sand. One was crackling with unspent energy. ("Curiouser and curiouser," said Alice a long time ago, and that was how Sora would have described this.)

He latched onto the memory of the dark, false Keyblade and let it fill his invisible gaping holes.

* * *

_the real keyblade is thrilling to the touch and this is just a crappy dead substitute it's cold and hard and lifeless and kinda like holding a corpse but i smile anyway i smile big and wide and suddenly it's like everyone knows what i'm planning_

* * *

Another shower of sparks—it was very much like a fireworks display—rained down before Sora's eyes. He was so close to the end. He could taste coppery blood in his mouth. He could see the proverbial tunnel of light. But . . . this memory wasn't going to let him go just yet . . .

* * *

_it hurts to do it but i just force my hand hard before my resolve breaks and the key slices into my chest bloodlessly and it stings so bad and i know i should be screaming but i'm just smiling wide still _don't you see i'm doing this for you i hope you know okay thanks_ and around me the world is rushing away and i hear the tumblers of my heart clicking allowing entrance allowing that which is stored within me to be free and hey if it loves me it'll come back right isn't that what they always say_

* * *

He was lying there—_lying there—_moments away from asphyxiation with the smell of sea salt and genuine leather up his nose—the gulls screaming and circling up above, the sun getting a good final look, the tide demolishing that lone sand castle—his friends' shocked faces in front of him, the ghostly pain that squeezed his heart—Axel was turning his face down and his grin was too wide and his eyes were too green—and beyond all of this, there skulked the future filled with Ansem's victorious laughter and the slow sucking noise that he heard when a world he hadn't been able to save was being overrun with Heartless. Thoughts left him like the oxygen did, his brain too overwhelmed to continue filing all the input rationally. The sand was hot and rough, the air was humid, his collarbone might have been broken, the island was withering and dying with him.

But when it happened—when it happened just like _this­_—it made perfect sense.

"Heavy is the head that wears the crown," Axel whispered.

Sora's body convulsed and forced upon him a do-or-die share of energy. It was a bargaining chip, his remaining strength, and it was hefty enough to say _You can win this hand if you try._

His knuckles went white as they tightened around the Keyblade's handle; the tines came up and connected flush with Axel's slight hip.

Sora shut his eyes against the summoned super-nova of lightning.

Axel screamed and fell back. Sora could breathe again and regardless of how lightheaded and nauseous he felt, he stood up.

* * *

_i am falling into darkness and it feels like dying i know i am dying and falling into darkness but i just want to see their faces one more time i want to see them smile for me_

* * *

"They're my memories," Sora said. It was hard not to deny his verdict: the cards were grinding like wind-up toys and discharging many sparks still. He cleared his throat. It felt scratchy and sore. "The cards, I mean."

Axel stared, saying nothing, and lifted his hand to wipe at the dark blood trickling down from his nose and mouth. Sora pointed the Key at him.

"Isn't that right? The cards are reacting to my 'memories'—I mean, look at what they're doing. Are they storing the memories that you've stolen from me?"

"Sora, comrade—exalted one," Axel said beseechingly. "How about we did down and talk civilly about this?"

"Fuck you."

Arching a brow, Axel smiled in an unnerving way. "Okay."

"Shut up. And don't move or else I'm going to hurt you until you're bleeding out of every pore on your body."

"I'll be a good boy."

_Yeah, right,_ Sora thought wearily. _And I wear Queen Minnie's garters._

"How do I unlock the memories?" Sora picked up one card. He expected to be zapped by the sparks, but they induced only mild tingling. "Do I destroy them, or—?"

"You're an idiot if you think I'm going to tell you," Axel interrupted.

"You _are _going to tell me."

"I never got that memo."

"_How do I unlock the memories?_" Sora cried.

Axel tilted his head, still smiling, and let out a soft hissing sound. A moment later he unwound and sprung at Sora, as quick as the lightning that had temporarily stunned him. He caught Sora's left wrist this time and wrenched. Sora began to squirm and fight when the Key hummed and warmed in his other hand—and he knew, as blackness encroached on his vision in specks and flurries, that he had no other choice: _Firaga_. The flames raced downward at an angle and lashed the ground; intense heat congealed the sand to create the slushy, boiling beginnings of glass. Sparking, crackling cards were caught up in the fire, and they burst apart in tandem after brief exposure. Sora watched as the real horror entered Axel's eyes.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Axel yelled. He let go of Sora and went for the few cards that had not been immediately consumed.

Flecks of light drifted down and coated everything like ash because these flecks did not melt. They were warm and dusty and Sora didn't care about Axel anymore: memories he had lost rushed back into his head. He sighed with the passion that had been building up to this moment. Ash-light patterned his hair, making it glow, and it got all over his clothes and even the Key. He picked up his necklace where it had fallen off his chest; he knew Kairi had given it to him, and it meant a lot to him because he loved her. It went into his pocket with Oathkeeper—another one of her gifts—for safekeeping until he could repair the clasp.

"Postman," Sora said and turned to look at him. "You asked me how I felt before, and I finally have an answer for you: I feel complete."

Axel was grinning. His face and hands were burnt; blackened fingers were holding onto charred scraps and even a number of whole cards. "Complete?" Axel whispered. Suddenly Sora's skin felt like it was tightening and stretching paper-thin; it was like he needed to shed it, or else it would tear on his bony joints. "_Complete?_ No, you are not yet complete. Only darkness makes you complete. That's the real secret."

"What—"

"I wonder what I've taken for good," Axel mused, and then he disappeared.


	6. Epilogue

_

* * *

Author's notes: Well, this is the end. It has been one entertaining ride. I make no apologies for what I have done in previous chapters. If you enjoyed this story, thank you; if you didn't, maybe whatever I write next will be better._

_In case you're interested:_

_Writing began: May 23, 2004. Writing ended: June 29, 2004. Editing began: June 30, 2004. Editing ended: July 23, 2004. (Nice symmetry, no?)_

* * *

**PLAYING FOR KEEPS **

* * *

_Act VI / Epilogue_

* * *

* * *

There was a star shower that night. And the Heartless came.

Sora had been conditioned to expect a full-blown war that would push him to his limits both physically and mentally.

It was anything but.

The Heartless certainly caused a commotion: they overran the streets of neighboring villages and covered the castle's yards. Neo-Shadows clambered up and down walls like demented spiders while Blue Rhapsodies and Yellow Operas crashed through every window they found. Air Soldiers winged by in chevrons, bypassing the barricades erected to stop most grounded Heartless. Black Mushrooms roamed the untamed countryside, attacking anyone trying to flee from civilization. Sora ran and the Heartless that sensed his presence followed him in teeming waves, but there were still droves remaining to terrorize the hapless populace.

Shootings stars lit up the sky; they were big and bright and shiny, and their tails left milky streaks that faded come morning. Looking up, Sora knew that the worlds' boundaries had officially fallen, though there was no forthcoming explanation of how the postman had come for him days before this event . . .

The war room was crowded and loud; military strategists—stuffy old men who had never waged an actual war, but instead read about them in fictional novels until they were experts—poured over maps, drawing important-looking little symbols and pushing around hand-painted figurines with the butts of their batons. Royal advisors were part of an angry fray next to the center table: there was no King to sanction the actions of the military, they roared. But no one paid them any attention, because no matter what, nothing but the Keyblade could permanently destroy the Heartless. They were short on Keyblade-wielders.

Sora found them fermenting like that, discussing evacuation and harikari. The scruffy, bloodied kid with the ripped shirt and shorts wasn't noticed at first, but the kid assessed their progress, summoned the Key, and stepped atop a metal dais rusted with neglect. Silence swung outward; one at a time, the military strategists and royal advisors looked up and saw the glowing Key.

"Show me where the Heartless are coming from," Sora said.

They hurried him over to the table and its maps, indicating a known "hot spot" where Heartless had been seen preparing new battalions of aggressors. Sora knocked aside the markers and figurines, studied the layout quietly, and then nodded.

"What should we do?"

"Evacuate the towns closest to this point," he commanded, tapping the map. "That spot is a Keyhole, and it has to be locked. I'll need two knapsacks: Potions and Ethers."

"Yes, of course!"

He heard the movement start up around him as people scrambled to get the supplies; no one arrested him and demanded to know where he had been, why he had done what he did to Donald and Goofy and the guardsmen, or anything else. Privately he felt alleviated despite his cool businesslike exterior.

Someone touched his elbow. "Thank God you're back. Is there anything else we can get you, Keyblade Master?"

"No, there isn't—" Sora said, but then he felt a smile coming on. "Actually, a jar of peanut butter would be good."

* * *

* * *

There were never any formal charges brought against him; his heroics in The War (with capitals even when spoken about) had been enough to expiate his sins, or so the Court believed. No formal ceremony reinstated him as King Sora because he had never truly been denied the crown. It made things easier that way. The public soon forgot they had been in crisis for several days in late summer.

"Puberty. His emotional disturbances came from simply being a late bloomer," said one royal psychologist in the final dog days of the issue. "Obviously."

Sora had seen real warfare. Among other things, he had seen his own home ripped apart by an army of Heartless. The War had been a mere shadow of what it could have been, and Sora believed it to be a warning shot. The Heartless that temporarily overran the Kingdom were no more impressive than those he had fought inside Hollow Bastion. Even without Donald and Goofy, he mowed through them and finally locked the door they had been pouring out of. It only took three hours to accomplish this; he returned to the castle, smiling and nursing a Potion and looking more alive than ever before. Fighting the Heartless cured him of his funk, people agreed behind closed doors. Inactivity must've made him so moody before.

For the remainder of the night he sat by Goofy and Donald's besides—they were still unconscious—and cried for them until all that had happened overcame him with sleep. He dreamt about gorging on shadows and woke up feeling starved, every muscle aching. When he looked in the mirror he saw the spark was back in his eyes; he tested out a smile and was pleased. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not get rid of his peculiar hunted look that emphasized his premature wrinkles and darkly smudged the skin under his eyes, aging him many years.

"I should have locked the door when I first came here," he later lamented while addressing a crowd of subjects from the royal balcony. "I didn't realize. I'm sorry."

"Who cares?" the proletariat called, and he was inclined to agree.

Like everything else calling for a celebration, The War's victorious finish was observed in festivities that lasted an entire week. Expensive balls fit for the fairytale ending were thrown each evening; fireworks displays painted the sky each night. Sora shied away from most of these events and preferred instead to stay with his wounded escorts, chatting and joking to their memories as if nothing had gone wrong. (Goofy and Donald came out of their comas weeks later; curiously, they couldn't remember anything about the circumstances of their injuries. Sora was guiltily grateful.) On the second to last night he went up to the fifth floor and sat at the window seat, leaning back on the cushions with his knees hugged close. The stars were peaceful; he didn't dwell on the strange and huge holes still in his memory.

He couldn't get away after dinner on the last night. Royal advisors accosted him and offered peanut butter sandwiches in exchange for his presence. (The story about Sora asking for peanut butter before he won The War had morphed into something of a legend with embellishments here and there until everyone believed it was his only staple.) He pointed out the sandwiches were made with "chunky" peanut butter and he only liked "smooth." Grinning, they had him beat anyway once everyone else in the room joined in: people pleaded, begged, and blocked all the exits. Sora finally conceded and allowed them to have their King and savior, their winner of The War, their Keyblade Master who had drunk only three of the twenty-seven Potions that had been stuffed into a knapsack. He even gave a stuttering and bashful little speech. It was an affair.

The fireworks were as beautiful as he remembered them being on his first birthday here, and he didn't feel so discontent about having to stay with the real party. He leaned against the banister in one of the yard's gazebos and watched colorful concentric circles dilate. Advisors milled nearby; after some minutes of murmuring, one approached him.

"King Sora?"

"I've told you guys so many times," Sora said and turned, smiling, "that you don't have to call me that."

"Senator Axel wants to congratulate you personally—if you'll grant him audience," the advisor said nervously.

"Sure. Bring him over."

"King Sora!" Senator Axel said and swept down in a bow. Sora was faintly amused and thought the man was going to kiss the floor before he straightened. There were a few white bandages on his cheeks that stood out like new scars. "It's such a pleasure being able to see you again."

"You were . . ."

"You remember me? I attended your birthday party—and I went to your coronation with the other Senators, though we didn't get a chance to talk then." Senator Axel winked. "I'm your _biggest fan_."

Sora rubbed at the blush warming his nose. "Thanks for your support. I really haven't been the best King, but I think things will be all right from now on."

"That is something I've been hoping to hear from you," Senator Axel asserted, smiling his own broad smile. His eyes slipped down onto Sora's silver crown necklace. "Oho—and what's this? It's so chic."

"It's a necklace one of my friends gave me a while ago," Sora said, reflecting fondly as he closed his fingers around it. "It means a lot to me."

"What a shame. I was going to go buy one if you got it someplace around here. I think it would've gone well with the vesture I'm wearing." Senator Axel shook his head as if to clear it and tugged at his expensive black velvet. "But that's all the time I have, I'm afraid, so I'll have to meet and greet you whenever my schedule isn't so packed. I already have another commitment with a friend."

Sora blinked several times and opened his mouth, but said nothing.

"Until then," Senator Axel said, waving and disappearing into the crowd of advisors, Senators, and noblemen.

* * *

_he smiles at me and holds onto my necklace my neck hurts from where the chain dug in he wants to know "don't you think this would go gorgeously with my vesture" and i just want to spit on him_

* * *

"Senator Axel is an important ally," one advisor then said to Sora. "If you ever want anything done in the Senate, you should speak with him about it. He'll help you out—especially since he likes you. He was your number one supporter when the issue came up of whom was to be King during this time . . ."

Sora could not reply because his voice was gone. _There were bandages, weren't there?_ _Right where I struck Postman? _he thought, startled. _I must've been seeing things again . . ._

"Majesty! Are you all right? You're so pale—you look like you've seen a ghost!"


End file.
